Silence in the Librar....er, Living Room

I am a horrible mother.  Yes, I said it.  I am a horrible mother.  No, I don't beat or spank or hit my children. I don't keep them locked in the basement tied to a radiator wallowing in their own filth.  No, I don't starve them or pray over them when they have life threatening illnesses.  I don't teach them hatred or intolerance or how to vote Republican.  I am a horrible mother because (dramatic pause for emphasis)...

I love it when they go to school.

There.  I said it.  My children, who I carried in my body and who I spent 9 months cooking then devoted 4 years to each of them as a stay at home mom, who I love more that the infinite Universe plus one; my children for whom I would step in front of a speeding train, for who I would climb Mount Everest in a bikini, for who I would ACTUALLY TOUCH A SPIDER (wait, maybe not that one).  Yes, I LOVE IT WHEN MY CHILDREN ARE NOT HOME ALL DAY AND AT SCHOOL.

I feel so terrible for saying that, but it truly is a wonderful thing.  I have had a child or children following me around every second of every day of every minute for the last 8 years, and while I was very anxious and weepy to see my littlest go off to Pre-Kindergarten this year, that sadness lasted all of about, oh, give or take, six minutes.

Let me explain why.

• Bathroom Use. - I can now actually use the bathroom for more than 5 minutes without someone knocking on the door to ask me if Optimus Prime has parents (no, he doesn't) or if killing a mammoth while walking through Skyrim is a good idea (no, it isn't).  I can sit and "ponder the universe" for as long as I like.  Seriously, it has been 8 years since I took a shit alone.

• Showering - Pretty much the same as "bathroom use", but in this case I can comfortably remove my clothes without having to lock 3 doors and run the risk of one of my boys coming in to ask me "why are your boobs so down low" or "is that your vagina? does it hurt?"  Showering has now become a pure art form.  I can actually savor scrubbing my hair with that awesome shampoo I spent too much money on.  I can sit and let the hot water soothe my aching back and let the bathroom steam up so I feel like I'm in a cocoon.  It's wonderful to be able to SHOWER again, instead of that five minute lukewarm water "pits and slits" routine I was doing for so long.  I feel like I am in a spa now!

• Exercising - My yoga in the mornings is now relaxing.  No longer is my Downward Dog seen as an invitation to body slam me.  My Sun Salutation is met with peace instead of "mom watch this, I'm a Ninja (something breaks)".  My final Savasana is restful and introspective, not "Look mom, I can be dead too!" followed by screaming and swords.  Yoga now, in the mornings, is what it is meant to be.  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Savasana with Sword, Dodie -Age 4

Savasana with Sword, D Age 8

    

• Household chores - It used to be that folding clothes meant I would fold the laundry, leave the room, and come back to my children "helping" me fold by mixing everything up and dropping half the laundry on the floor or the dog.  The dog would then try to eat the clothes and end up slobbering all over half of them.  Yea kids, thanks for the help. Same with dusting and mopping the floors.  Please, just....dont help.

• Watching TV/Movie -  I can watch the most inappropriate TV or Movie I want without little pitchers hovering.  To date, while I have been folding clothes or dusting, I've watched, um, ok, um.....no that's not bad, no that's a kid show, OK!  I've caught up on Drunk History AND Mistresses so HA!  I am so rocking that TV time.  Today, for example, I watched a whole hour of The Adventures of Gumball before realizing that there were no children home and that I was the only person (read: adult) in the room.  Laughing.  Hysterically.  At Gumball

• Grocery Shopping - There is nothing more beautiful in this world than going shopping alone.  Especially grocery shopping.  Mysterious items like "Crap on a stick full of sugar that will kill you" do not end up in your cart after you turn your back to pick up broccoli.  Tantrums aren't being thrown when you accidentally walk past the toy aisle and screams of "I want that!" when pointing to some plastic knock-off "Tony the Train Engine" made in Crapzbekistan by blind infants in wheelchairs who are paid ten cents a year. There's none of that.  There's just me and the list and I'm out within the hour with time to spare.  It's amazing. 

• Gaming - I hate to say it, but I wish I had more time to do this.  For those folks who think that Stay at Home Moms have it easy, they don't.  And now that my kids are in school until 2:30, you'd think I would guiltily take some time to put my feet up and play some Dishonored or Assassin's Creed or finally finish my quests in Solstein and Skyrim.  I would so love to do that, but by the time I'm done with all the other things, there's really no time and I don't want to sit down and start something that I can only do for ten minutes.  Sure, I've taken a few minutes to check out Terraria (still don't get it), and kill a few skeletons in Minecraft, but if anyone thinks I've got a solid 8 hours to sit on my ass and play (like I'm sure some people think SAHMs do), you're wrong.  Gaming is still reserved for late nights, and because I'm so busy during the day, those "late nights" are few and far between.

• Me - Lastly, and not least, I've found this person again.  You lose yourself in your kids when you're a mom.  I haven't seen me in 8 years.  Don't get me wrong, I'm still a mom and still completely devoted to those boys I love so much.  Just, for a part of the day, I can just be "me" for a while.  I'm not "Mooo-ooommm wipe my butt!" or "Mommy help me with my math!" or "Mama he hit me!" or "Ma, I'm bleeding and my leg is falling off".  While, I love being all those versions of "Mom", it's still nice to discover "Alessia" is still around, lurking about in her Skinny Puppy T-Shirt and combat boots.  

So there you have it, all the reasons why I am a terrible mother.

I can't wait until tomorrow.

Pink or Blue? F**K YOU!

Enough already with the goddamn "Boy" and "Girl" crap.  Really, enough.  I've had it up to here with the fucking "blue is for boys" and "pink is for girls" idiocy.  I've had it with making a normal everyday object, turning it pink, and then saying "it's for girls, yay!" It's  Darth Vader's red lightsaber! Only boys can touch it!  Now it's pink!  Yay girls!

Shut the fuck up with that bullshit. I had an encounter a couple of years ago about this crap with an asshole and I think it's high time this ended.

There are pink versions of every toy you can think of.  Is a piano not going to be able to be touched by a girl if it isn't pink? Is a soccer ball going to melt if it is kicked by a girl and it is not pink, what if her sneaker is pink?  There's even a Transformer that is pink, Arcee. Seriously??? When the hell did the ROBOT TRANSFORMERS grow boobs and dicks?  I had no idea that they were male or female.  Last I checked they were ROBOTS.  And I'm sorry, but I played with Transformers as a little girl and I was never burned, lightning did not strike me, nor did I end up a lesbian. 
And don't think that this is just the feminization of "boy" toys.  It works both ways as well.  Now "girl" toys are becoming more masculine by coloring them more "manly" colors.  For example, the LeapPad series comes in standard "unisex" green and the "girl" option is pink.  Gel cases can be found in "manly" blue and purple (though some may argue that purple still means they're "fruity").

The Easy Bake oven, which only came in one color years ago, now comes in "girly" pink, light blue, and purple.  The website itself is disgustingly infuriating as well as it is literally called "Easy Bake Cooking & Baking Games for Girls!" The whole website, including the videos and the links, are directed towards girls.  There's no, "Hey so you want to be Mario Batali when you grow up" or "Gordon Ramsay's tips on how to make amazing Beef Wellington in your Easy Bake Oven".  No, there's none of that.  The whole site is this overly cute, overly frilly, overly girly, piece of crap that would make any boy feel like there was something wrong with him if he liked that sort of toy.  Trust me, it does.  My oldest son loves to cook and asked for an Easy Bake Oven.  We went to the store to look for one and I hate to say it, he fell into the trap of the whole "girl" "boy" bullshit.  It's hard to teach gender neutrality at home when his peers make fun of him for wanting to jump rope instead of shoot hoops, for wanting to read a My Little Pony book instead of Iron Man.  So I don't fault him for chickening out and changing his mind. Besides, he cooks in our home oven now anyway, so take that Easy Bake.

I got into an argument with the drive up teller at McDonald's (please no hate mail. I know McD's is gross, but once in a blue moon isn't going to kill them) because I refused to say I wanted the "boy toy" as opposed to the "girl toy".  I kept saying that my children wanted the stuffed bear toy that came with the meal and she kept asking me if they were boys or girls.  I insisted that it didn't matter what gender my children were, they just wanted that particular toy!  And mind you, the "boy toy" was a piece of crap football player thing.  What the hell do my kids know about football?  They're 7 and 3.  They want a stuffed animal!  So I pull up to the window to collect the meals and I ask the woman to make sure that apple slices are in the bag (they forget) and when she notices the "girl toys" in there, she says "Oh no! You have boys!  We need to change the toys NOW!!!"  Um, no you don't.  They're not going to magically sprout boobs just because they're not playing with a "boy toy".  The woman looked at me very strangely when I told her not to change them and said "Whatever".  To this day, I refuse to say "boy toy" or "girl toy".  I can't.  It's just bullshit.

And mind you, it's not just directed toward children, this moronic brainwashing of gender specification  also targets (supposedly) intelligent adults.  The gun industry is making a killing on "Guns for the Ladies", that are pink or leopard print, and that fit in your purse or clutch. They even have PINK BULLETS!  Seriously!!! Now we are gender specifying how we kill another human being?!?!?!  Look, I'm not a fan of guns (don't care if you are, I just am not) but if I am going to shoot someone who is about to hurt my children, I could care the fuck less if it had a Hello Kitty logo on it, a fuzzy case, or was pink.  Jesus Christ!  Come on people!!

Don't even get me started on Bic for Her. I kid you not, their tag line is "A ball pen essentially for her!"  Seriously?  Now I need a special pen to write with because my dainty girl fingers can't handle the man pens?  What does a woman need this "essential" pen for?  Do I use it to mark my menstrual cycle on the calendar?  God forbid I use a plain ol' man pen for that!  I might get pregnant! Maybe I should write my shopping list because only girls do the shopping!  Maybe I can use it to score all the cute boys I know, because after all I am just a dumb girl whose only interests are boys, boys, makeup, boys, hair, makeup and boys!  Mean man pens are too hard to write with and if I make a mistake, they hit me!

You'd think that in this day and age, this whole bullshit of "boy this" and "girl that" would be a thing of the past.  Sure, there are differences between men and women.  I can't pee standing up (without making a huge mess) and they can't have a baby (although why is it that when I'm the pregnant one, it's always "we're" having a baby).  But certainly, it is high time to change the toy store sections from Pink (dolls, cash registers, kitchens, mops, beauty products) and Blue (sports equipment, action figures, toy guns and weapons, video games, tools) to just sections labeled "Stuff for ALL KIDS".  This way, more boys and girls won't have to feel ashamed or different for shopping outside of their "color".

Paining and Gaining

A few months ago I casually mentioned to a friend that I wanted to express on my blog the troubles, both physical and emotional, that I've been having since my spinal surgery in May 2012.  My friend vehemently opposed such an idea, telling me that I would come across as a "whiner" and would just annoy people with my "looking for sympathy" post and that I should just "deal with" whatever I was going through and leave the "sob story" for other bloggers.  So, I didn't post and I carried on with my life.  But as of late, I'm getting sick and tired of being, well, sick and tired, and I'm at the point now where I just want to say a big ol' "fuck you" to everyone and everything.  I'm not here to give a sob story or whine about how bad my life is, but I am here to vent and get my shit out in the open and maybe, just maybe, shed light and understanding as to why I am the way I am lately and feel the way I feel.

First off, I'm pretty much done with the medical community and doctors in general.  They don't give a shit about their patients.  Especially ones who are overweight like myself and who are begging and pleading for some help.  Fuck you. Fuck you. And fuck you.  Just because I'm fat doesn't mean you can dismiss all of my problems to the "she's fat" category and tell me to diet and exercise.  Guess what?  I'm on a fucking 1200 calorie a day diet already and I'm pushing through excruciating pain to get to the gym at least three times a week.  So don't tell me about "diet and exercise".  What the fuck do you want me to do?  Eat air and damage my spine even more just so I can be your idea of "healthy"?  Fuck you. Fuck you. And Fuck you too.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

Before I had my back surgery I went to countless doctors, explaining to them that I had horrible pain shooting down my left leg and that I knew something was wrong.  All of them.  ALL OF THEM said "You're fat. You have sciatica. Lose weight."  Look, I know my body (all of it) and I knew that we weren't dealing with sciatica.  I begged for MRIs and scans, telling these doctors that this was much more than sciatica and that I was in agony and all they saw was a fat girl complaining about her back.  No one listened to me.  And finally MONTHS after I begged to be heard and scanned, I had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance, pumped full of morphine, and told casually by a doctor (13 hours after I had been admitted) that I "needed surgery yesterday".  Gee?  You FUCKING THINK SO?!?!?!

And now, 14 months after my spinal surgery, I am back to square one.  But, as though the Universe were playing a cruel joke, the pains are now down my right leg and my back hurts so bad that there are days where walking the few steps to the kitchen seems like the Exodus out of Egypt.  And the carousel of doctors has begun again.  I tell them my pain, they see a fat girl complaining about her back.  This last doctor put me over the edge today.  After 10 days of waiting for lab results from blood tests, her assistant calls me to tell me that the doctor, after reviewing my results, recommends "diet and exercise".  REALLY?  REA-FUCKING-LLY????  I spent an hour in her office explaining to her my diet, showing her my food journal, explaining to her that I was stuck in a vicious cycle of being overweight and in pain which prevented me from exercising as fully I wanted which was because I was overweight and in pain which prevented me from exercising as fully as I wanted because I was overweight and in pain which prevented me from exercising as fully as I wanted because I was overweight........
But no.  Apparently, she didn't listen to me either.  Apparently, NOTHING I fucking said registered other than "she's fat and whining about her back".

Let me tell you something, unlike most of the fat asses that I see stuffing their faces with whatever the fuck they want and sitting on their couches all day doing jack shit, I don't do that.  I don't want to do that.  I want to go bike riding.  I want to go swimming.  I want to go hiking up a goddamn mountain with my kids and then have a picnic and play frisbie.  I care that I am stuck hobbling through the grocery store using the cart as a walker.  I fucking care that ten minutes on a bike renders me IMMOBILE for the rest of the day.  I care about the foods that I put in my system and you had better believe that I care that I am not providing the best possible parenting to my children that they deserve.  I can't pick my child up when he cries.  I can't chaperone a field trip to the botanical gardens because there's too much walking.  I can't go for late night walks on the beach with my boys.  I can't fucking do anything without being in excruciating pain.  And with pain comes anger and I take it out on my kids.

I am a horrible mom right now.  And I know it.

I am so fucking sick and tired of this bullshit.  And I don't care who knows about it anymore.  Here's my sad story blog.  Deal with it.  I am unhappy and miserable and in constant pain.  You want me to point to the number on the chart where my pain level is at?  It's off it.  My kids are suffering, my husband is suffering (I can't ride a bike, you think SEX is easier?), and I'm fed up.

And while we are at it, let me comment on those annoyingly self serving "fitness" memes that everyone seems to be posting on Facebook as of late.  You know, the ones who are like "just get in the gym" or "being sexy is just too easy", or "no excuses for being fit".  A giant fuck you to you too.  And a giant fuck you to the comments on those memes about "fat people just need to stop eating" or "fat people need to get off the couch" or even those lovely ones about how "fat acceptance is just ugly people trying to make themselves feel better".  Screw you.  You have no idea why some of us are suffering inside these giant bodies.  Screw you if you think I wouldn't kill to be able to go back to my Yoga class and ride my bike again.  Screw you for not having to deal with horrible pain on a daily basis.  Screw you for not needing your child to help you put your shoes on because you can't bend over to do it yourself.

I'm tired of doing what I am supposed to do and getting no help and no results.  After my surgery I blew up from being so inactive that I put on a ton of weight.  I've managed to get 50 pounds of that weight off and now I've been hindered with the return of pain and I've virtually come to a standstill.  I went to the aforementioned doctor to seek guidance, help, and maybe some encouragement.  "How can you help me, doctor, get through this plateau I've reached?"  "What can I do to stop this pain?"  "Can you recommend some physical therapy?"  "Can I please have an MRI?"  "Help Me."

You're fat.  Diet and Exercise.  Thank you, drive through.

Move Over David Beckham Redux and watch out Lebron James!

Well, it looks like the Original Soccer Star has been replaced with this new up and coming star.....

That's right, it's David Beckham 2.0!

I wish had more pictures but unfortunately, Dodie needed  A LOT of coaxing from the coaches.  He's young and it was his first time but when it was over he said to me, "Mo' sacka mama?"

Dante was 3 1/2 when he played Tiny Tots Soccer at the YMCA. Dorian is not yet 3.


Dante, on the other hand joined the youth basketball league at the Y and is doing awesome.

I'm just wondering where my babies went.  (And when I will ever have the time to focus on my blog again).

Huggie Bear

You don't have to tell me we are a weird family.  I mean, when I asked Dante if I should decorate the house for Halloween, he looked around, and softly stated, "But mom, isn't the house already decorated for Halloween?"  That was a proud moment for this old goth mom, and I'm sure that when people visit, they tend to think "Is something going to jump out at me and kill me?" or "Do I have to pay admission to this place?".

But in all the ways that we are weird, I never thought that we were strange when it came to affection, both giving and receiving.  We're huggers and kissers and touchers and squeezers.  Randy and I are very affectionate toward each other and toward the children. The kids are hugged and kissed at least 7 million times a day, give or take .5. 

Apparently, this is not the "norm" in most families as evidenced today by sadly my poor son's humiliation.  Twice.

We went to his school's book fair.  As we were entering, Dante saw one of his classmates, a boy.  Dante was so excited to see him, he ran up to him and gave him a big hug.  The kid, first of all, didn't move a muscle, and acted as though a Dementor was flying in his face.  Stone faced and even shocked looking, the kid barely managed a "hello" before his mom (who didn't even acknowledge me or my mom) started pulling him away as though Dante had the plague.  Poor Dante didn't understand why 1. his friend didn't hug him back, and 2. why his friend acted scared.  I brushed it off, chalking it up to shyness and asshattery (yes first graders can be asshats) and we went inside.

And then it happened again.  Dante saw another classmate, a girl, and he again in his excitement of seeing her, hugged her.  This time, the little girl FLINCHED like Dante was going to pull a Chris Brown on her and as she PUSHED Dante off her she said, "Don't ever hug me in public again". The look on my son's face was horrible.  He was mortified.  I wanted to dig a hole for him to jump into.

O.o

O rly?

Her mother, visibly embarassed (thankfully so) made her come over to Dante and give him a high-five as a sort of apology and then explained that "she's not used to hugs".  Um.......NOT USED TO HUGS?  What planet am I living on when a first grader, no fuck it, when ANYONE is not used to hugs, let alone a little kid?

So sadly, I had to explain to Dante that not every family was like ours and from now on, when he saw a friend, to not run up and hug them and to just wave and say hello.  If they wanted to hug, let them come to him first.

What a horrible conversation. I am so sorry I had to have it.

So next time, if you see Dante, give him a big hug.

From the Mouths of Babes.....

I organized an event last night at Dante's school for the 3rd and 4th graders.  It was an Pajama party/Movie Night and lots of fun.

I am the type of mom who likes to interact and get to know the kids. Last year, I knew every one of Dante's Kindergarten classmates (and I'm well on my way to knowing all of his 1st grade mates this year) and I can still see them today and say hello to them (and strangely enough they somehow remember me) <----#sarcasmfont

Anyhow, I sat down with some of the kids and chatted with them and this is what I discovered from today's 8 and 9 year olds.

• The Lorax is good but it's boring and nothing blows up
• My dad used to be a DJ in the olden days in the 90's.
• My mom is really old.  She's 32.
• We should turn off the movie and dance because I want to show everyone my moves and maybe someone will want to be my girlfriend.
• It's weird to see my friends without their clothes on. (The kids were wearing pajamas, not the required school uniform)
• My grandpa was a warrior in the Venetian War. He's dead now.
• In the 80's there were no cell phones so people couldn't call anyone unless they were home.
• In the 80's computers were as big as your house and only rich people had them.
• Girls are weird because all they want to do is hit you
• Boys are weird because all they want to do is hit you
• My dad has tattoos like you except his are nicer
• I like your tattoos. My mom won't let me get one yet.
• Is Justin Bieber your favorite singer?
• You like Star Wars?  But you're a mom!
• How could you have seen Star Wars when you were a kid? It wasn't real back then.

And my favorite of the evening:

• I love your hair and your lipstick.  You look like a goth lady, but old and with jeans on.
  

Shama-lama-lama-laminectomy!

As you know, I was in the hospital from May 9th until May 13th.  What you might not know is how or why I ended up there. So here goes:

For a while now ( a few months) I had been suffering from lower back pain radiating into my left leg.  I was still able to walk and function in my duties as "mommy" so I pretty much paid no mind to it, other than taking the occasional Aleve or Ibuprofen tablet to ease the discomfort.  I was still very active in my Yoga and Pilates classes and really just chalked it up to "I need to lose more weight" and "I'm officially old because this is sciatica".

After a few weeks, the pain wasn't getting any better and it certainly was getting worse.  Now, my left leg would spasm randomly sending shooting pains all the way up my body and my spine making it unbearable to put any pressure on it for a few minutes.  My balance at Yoga was completely off when dependent on my left side, sitting cross legged was virtually impossible, and sitting at all for any length of time would eventually start to hurt terribly, thus making it impossible for me to drive.

At the end of March, I was lying on the couch and in trying to get up, my left leg gave out and I cried out in pain for Randy to help me.  I couldn't move. My back and my leg were on fire and it was horrible.  My mom came and took me to the Emergency Room where I was given an I/V and Delaudin (?) which (didn't know at the time) I am allergic to and I proceeded to hallucinate and get sick all over the place.  And it did nothing to alleviate my pain or the spasms.  After hours of twilight sleep in an uncomfortable gurney, my mom putting cold cloths on my head, the doctor came, asked me questions, told me I had sciatica, prescribed pain meds and muscle relaxants, told me to take it easy, and sent me on my way.

Take it easy?  I'm a mom. I don't take it easy.

I followed the regiment I was given, took a pain med as needed as well as the muscle relaxant and decided that this was going to be a pain I was going to have to live with.  There were good days and bad and I was just going to have to deal.  I modified my poses at Yoga, took it slower in Pilates, and went on with my life.

One morning in late April, as I was hoisting Dorian, my 25 pound 22 month old into the car so we could take Dante to school, I felt "something" click in my back and I saw stars.  I saw moons, planets, nebulae, fuck it I saw the whole Universe in the pain and I knew something was wrong.  I managed to take Dante to school then hightailed it to my mom's house where it was decided that we'd make an appointment with a doctor at her primary care office to see me.

This doctor was very brusk and formal.  Told me that I should expect to have lower back pain and sciatica because of my weight (fuck you very much) and that he would prescribe me pain medication and Valium this time and recommend I see a nutritionist.  And he sent me on my way.

A couple of days later, the same thing again, my leg went into spasms and my back wouldn't move and I was taken to the E/R where again, I was told I had sciatica, given pain meds, and sent home.  This doctor, though, recommended I go get an MRI.  When asked why he couldn't just send me up to get one, he said "We don't do MRIs at the E/R, you'd have to be admitted".  Gee thanks Doc.

So that night, my mom took me to get an MRI at the Outpatient center nearby.  By this time, my leg and back pain were so intense that I was no longer able to function.  Lying on my side was the only way to alleviate the pain.  I could walk as far to the bathroom but even sitting down to "use" the toilet was excruciatingly painful.  When I heard that I would have to lie FLAT and STILL for this MRI I didn't know if I could do it.  I was shoved into the MRI machine and I instantly knew that I was in trouble.  The pain was so incredible that I was literally SCREAMING for them to get me out.  I lasted as long as I could but unfortunately, the tech was unable to get a scan.  She recommended I call an ambulance and be taken to the hospital.  Then, and only then, would they "admit" me to get an MRI.

I had had enough by then and just wanted to go home.  After a long night, my mom came over in the morning, called an ambulance and I was taken by three very handsome EMTs BACK TO THE HOSPITAL.  This was at 10:30am May 9th.  I was fed morphine through an I/V all day but nothing was helping.  At 10:30 PM, the doctor came in, told me that if he gave me any more morphine, I would die, and that I was going to have to do the MRI awake and just do my best.  So I was wheeled up to the hospital MRI.  Randy, having switched places with my mom after work, was at my side as I cried from the pain, assured me that I could do it and to be strong.  The MRI guys were kind and sensitive to my pain.  I explained to them how difficult it was for me to be on my back and they said they would do it as fast as they could.  I went into the machine.

I must have blacked out from the pain because I was awakened by the tech in my earphones telling me to stop moving.  I explained to him that I wasn't moving.  Turns out that my body, from the extreme pain, was spasming on its own.  I was pulled out and allowed to lie on my side and cry for a little bit.  The tech told me that he had enough for a flat view but desperately needed the cross section view so I had to go back in.  I knew it was going to be excruciating but I also knew that if I didn't get this MRI done, there was no way I was going to get better. So I went back in.

It turns out, that I was gone for over an hour.  When the MRI was finished, I was so out of it from both pain and medication that I think I just went to sleep.  By now, it must have been 11:30pm or so.  I vaguely remember a doctor coming into my room in the E/R to tell me I was going to be admitted, but after that it gets blurry.  At 3am I woke up because I was rolling into the hospital going to my room on the 7th floor, Neurosurgery.  I was given more pain meds.....and I was out.

The next morning, Thursday May 10th, I was informed that I had herniated discs and that the "jelly" from my spine had burst through and was pressing on my back and nerves causing me this excruciating pain.  By this point, I was no longer able to walk at all and needed help going to the bathroom.  Nothing is more humbling than having a nurse younger than you wipe you.  Anyhow, I was told that surgery was necessary and that I'd be going under the knife tomorrow, May 11th.

So, I did.  I had a procedure known as a Laminectomy., plus my herniated discs were "shaved" down.(My incision is much lower that this diagram.  I believe my discs were 4 and 5).

I came home from the hospital on Mother's Day and have been recovering ever since.  I can walk again, but only short distances because I get very tired and my back starts to hurt.  I have a snazzy cane which makes me look pimp, and I cannot BLT (bend, lift, or turn).  I had my two week follow-up yesterday and I have been granted permission to drive short distances, but still am not allowed to swim until my incision is fully healed.  I am starting physical therapy 3 times a week for a month on June 5th and will follow up again after 6 weeks.  I still have lots of pain in my back and my doctor said that that is normal during the healing process, but if after our next followup, it is still present, I'm going to have to get X-rays done to see what's going on.

So there you have it.  My wonderful story about enduring horrible and copious amounts of pain.  Thanks to those of you who helped me with the kids, with my emotional state, and with just being there.  I couldn't have done it without you. 

My birthday is June 29th.  I hope to be dancing by then.

Like A Prayer

When I first met my husband, a native North Carolinian, he told me this joke about two little prim and proper Southern old ladies sitting on their front porch.
The first said to the other "My husband got me a Cadillac for my birthday this year!".
The other replied, "That's nice".
The first said, "And last year he bought me diamond earrings!"
"That's nice", replied the second.
"What did your husband get you for your birthday?" asked the first woman.
"Finishing lessons." replied the second.
"Finishing lessons?" asked the first woman, "Whatever for?"
"So I can say 'that's nice'", replied the second, "instead of 'Fuck you!'"

It's a cute joke and very fitting when I'm faced with the phrase "I'll pray for you".  This simple phrase uttered daily by millions of people has a very complex meaning, and it all depends on very specific circumstances.  Most people would assume, and wrongfully so, that because I am an Atheist, that the phrase, "I'll pray for you" would make me extremely angry and offend me to no end.  In fact, this past week while I was in the hospital having emergency back surgery (more on that in a future blog), my Facebook page was flooded with well wishes, thoughts, and yes, even prayers from friends who were thinking of me.  What upset me, though, were the posts from people offering prayers who felt they needed to "apologize" for using that terminology, thinking that because I don't pray, I would somehow find their need to do so as a way of wishing me well somewhat offensive.  So while lying in the hospital and watching horrible TV shows I would never dream of (admitting to) watching and having really cool painkillers pumped into my IV (seriously, the doctor said that if they gave me any more morphine I was going to stop breathing), I decided I would clarify certain things with my praying friends in hopes that they would understand my mind as an Atheist when it comes to things like that. Notice I didn't say "understand THE mind of an Atheist" as all of us are different and trust me, there are some fuckwad Atheists out there that I'd rather not be associated with.  Especially the ones that tell me I can't do Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy, but that's a whole other thing all together.  Anyhow, I digress.  Moving on.

The term "I'll pray for you" has, as I said earlier, different meanings.  Specifically, two.  The first comes from a place of love, caring, friendship, and the belief that your god (whoever or whatever he/she/it may be) will take time out of their omnipotent schedule (it's a pretty booked one) and nudge a little bit of goodwill by way of you to the person you're praying for.  That's awesome.  It's a nice sentiment.  There's no malice behind it and if anyone thinks there is, they're a dick for thinking it.  In most situations where the phrase "I'll pray for you" is being used or "You're in my prayers", someone like me who doesn't pray will say something like, "Thinking of you" or "Positive thoughts coming your way", or the ever intelligent "hugz".  There's no need to apologize for saying it.  You're wishing someone well.  You could be praying to Rangor, god of mute sheep who floods the fields with the blood of newborn lizards, and it still would be coming from a good place.  This meaning of "I'll pray for you" is not the one that is offensive.  So please, don't ever apologize for saying it.

Now, though, I will deal with the phrase as it is taken as a negative connotation.  I'm going to have to use examples since I've never experienced this with an actual friend, so most of my stories will be those of me and random strangers who are dicks.  No, I'm not judging. You'll see why.

Example 1 of "I'll pray for you" used as a negative:  I am shopping at a grocery store.  I am walking to my car with full cart of bags and children singing a random Yo Gabba Gabba song.  Woman is near my car. I think she's getting into hers next to me, but in fact she's just staring at my car.  I get my keys out to open the trunk.  Conversation is as follows:
Her: "Is that your car"
Me: "Yes, I'm sorry did I park too close?"
Her: "You're an Atheist" (My bumper sticker says "Friendly Neighborhood Atheist")
Me: "Yep."
Her: "So you don't believe in Jesus"
Me: "Nope"
Her: "I'll pray for you"

Did you spot the difference? She wasn't sending well wishes.  She was using the phrase as a mask instead of saying "Fuck you!"  And you can't convince me otherwise because 99% of the time when this happens (and yes, it happens quite often) the person saying "I'll pray for you" isn't merely speaking the words, rather they are spitting them in anger with a face on them that could stop a clock.  Seriously, if looks could kill, I'd be dead a hundred times over.  I even once had a guy actually spit on my car after saying "I'll pray for you".  Are you getting the gist of the different contexts?

Another example of the negativity aspect of "I'll pray for you" can also come in the written form.  In this case, when random strangers, leave "love notes" on my car.  I call them "love notes" because, as we all know, "god is love" and since these people believe they are speaking for god and followers of god, their notes are in fact, full of "his love".  Sorry, I told myself I wasn't going to be snarky, but blame the Percocet because it's kicking in.  Anyhow, the most common "love note" I get goes something like "Jesus Christ is Lord. You will burn in hell. I will pray for you".  Again, that's not a "get well soon" kind of sentiment.  They just don't have the guts to write "Fuck You" and would much rather condescend into some sort of weird passive/aggressive mumbo jumbo that makes them feel better about themselves. "Sure, I left a nasty note on someone's car whose views I disagreed with, but I am praying for them!" Not quite.  Sometimes I get some really clever notes, which have the standard text above, but thrown in they will add commentary about my other bumper stickers like "You are a ni**er loving socialist nazi" (must be the Obama sticker), "I feel sorry for your children" (must have seen the car seats in the car), "I hope your children burn for eternity" (see previous), or some that just don't understand the Carl Sagan quote about the Universe and call me a "fucking bitch", "cunt" or tell me to "go kill yourself, then see that you're wrong". But you know what brings all these notes together?  They all end with that simple phrase of .....you guessed it...."I'll pray for you".

But it doesn't end there. No no no!  It's not "I'll pray for you" that suffers from double meaning, but the phrase like "god bless you", rather anything with "bless" in it falls into the same trap. And again, I have to remind my friends not to apologize if you want to use it in a sentence while talking with me.  A while back I went to dinner with a wonderful woman from my book club.  She is an Episcopalian Minister, married to her partner for a long long time, and really someone that you come across once in a lifetime.  Amazing.  While we were eating and talking about our families, life, loves, etc. I noticed that she kept apologizing every time she said "god bless you" or "god bless them" when I was talking about my children or parts of my life.  And every time she apologized for saying it, I had to remind her not to because it wasn't offensive to me.  I think many religious people think all Atheists are cranky old men like Richard Dawkins who are always looking to pick a fight with theists.  You have to understand that we're not.  Sure, as I said earlier, there are fuckwads on all sides of the camp, but saying "god bless them" when I tell you a story about my kids isn't going to make me offended or go on a tirade.  You're wishing them love as you perceive it.  You're sending them positivity from a place that means a great deal to you.  Why ever would anyone need to apologize for that?

On the flip side, if you're handing out pamphlets at the park inviting me to your church and I politely say, "No thank you, we are Atheists", and you chuckle, scoff, roll your eyes and say "Well, god bless you then", please don't be surprised if I reply with some snarky comment like, "Well Santa bless you as well". 

So you see, there are many ways words and phrases can be used that take on a different meaning when used in different contexts.  I wanted to clear this up because I don't ever want anyone to hide or apologize for who they are when they want to wish me or my family well.  Goodness knows, I am not one to ever apologize or hide who I am or what I believe and neither should you.  No, this is not an open invitation to start throwing bible quotes on my FB timeline or send me "Jesus loves you" pictures or anything of the sort.  Just know that if you want to wish me well or luck or whatever and if the way you want to do it is to "pray for me", know that you do not have to apologize for saying it.  A perfect example came in an email from another one of my book club members who is a Pastor at a local Presbyterian Church near Dante's school. In his email he wrote " I'll be keeping u in my prayers (u can think of them as nice thoughts if u prefer :))".  

Zing!

If you know me, you know I'm not a fan of gender specification when it comes to toys and colors.  I don't buy into that whole "pink is for girls, blue is for boys" or that whole bullshit that boys can't play with dolls and girls can't play with trucks.  If you know me, you also know that I'm also not a fan of random strangers telling me how to parent or telling my children what to do.  So please to enjoy this conversation I had this morning at Marshall's while standing on line to return a pair of shoes.

Dorian: (pointing at pink dump tuck toy on display shelf) WAAAAAAHHHH! translation: I want that!:

Me: No, Dorian, you have plenty of trucks. You don't need another one.

Dorian: Mama, looooo loooo loooo loooo yes! translation: Mom, look, I want it yes

Me: No, Bloopie, now that's enough.

Fat Redneck Douchebag Dude wearing a John Deere Hat: You don't want that truck anyways boy, it's a girl's truck!

Me: A girl's truck?  Really?

FRDDwaJDH: Well it's pink, ain't it?

Me:  Seriously?  There's no such thing as a "girl's toy or a boy's toy" and that "pink and blue" crap is outdated.

FRDDwaJDH: Boys who like pink are queers. Looks like your son likes pink.

Me:  If that's the case, what's your excuse then? Or is your boyfriend a fan of "beer gut and camo?"

Thankfully, it was my turn in line because I have a feeling it would have gotten a little more heated with said "gentleman".  But, in true form, as I walked away with my queer 21 month old who wanted a pink truck, I heard the dulcet tones of murmured breath utter "fucking bitch" as I walked away.

Why yes, yes I am.

Spelling Fail....or Win?

Apocalypse Now

The end of the world is nigh.  No, not because the Mayan calendar is ending and not because asshats like Rick Santorum and Mitt Romney are running for president.  Not because Whitney Houston died (although you’d think so by the reactions of the media), not because Davey Jones died, and certainly not because Pat Robertson claims that the tornadoes are a sign of it.

The world is ending because of me.  Yes, that’s right. I take full responsibility for Doomsday when it comes.  And it’s coming.

Why, do you ask?  It’s simple.

I bought a Kidz Bop CD……………………………..at the mall………………………………………….on purpose.

Now before you shake your head in bewilderment and wonder why that would cause the end of the world, let me explain to you what Kidz Bop is (other than the tool of the devil to indoctrinate children into evil).  Kidz Bop is a company which started back in 2001 which takes popular music and releases it in “kid-friendly” versions to CD.  The "”questionable language and innuendo” is cleaned up and you even have a gaggle of pre-pubescent singers belting out tunes.  So far, there have been twenty-one Kidz Bop album, the last one being the one I purchased recently.

The kids LOVE it.

Me?  Personally?  Would rather stick a needle full of spider eggs into my eye and let them hatch into my brain.

For me, the “kid-friendly” censorship is hysterical. I find it very presumptuous of this company that runs Kidz Bop to assume that I would find certain words offensive.  For example, LMFAO’s “Party Rock Anthem” lyrics have one part where the music stops and the sample voice says, “Shake That”.  Apparently, in some alternate Kidz Bop Universe, this means “kill your parents and give BJ’s to all the boys in third grade” because the Kidz Bop version CENSORS that lyric and replaces it with “Dance That.”  I’m not kidding.  How the frig is “shake that” offensive or not “kid-friendly”?  The Wiggles have an entire song dedicated to “Shake the Sillies Out”.  Am I now to assume that the Wiggles are now some sort of purveyors of secret sex language for children?  I mean, according to Kidz Bop, does “shake the sillies out” really mean “show me your tits?”.

Another example on this CD I bought is Alexandra Stan’s “Mr Saxobeat”.  One of the lyrics reads “Playing sweet, make me move like a freak”.  Apparently, moving like a freak is unacceptable and therefore the Kidz Bop lyric reads “Playing sweet, make me dance to the beat.”  Really?  Really?!?! Am I just a crazy parent that doesn’t care about the word “freak”?  Am I a crazy parent because I don’t care what the lyrics are?  Ok Ok, I’m not going to let the kids listen to gangsta rap because the cursing and violent misogyny are pretty loud and clear, but “freak” and “sexy” (another word censored in this song) really don’t bother me.  Plus, you can hardly understand what these singers are saying to begin with which makes censorship really unnecessary, doesn’t it?.

For me though, the clincher was the censored version of Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away”.  After hearing the censorship in the earlier songs, I had a gut feeling that this Kidz Bop version was going to be deconstructed into this “kid-friendly” mishegoss that would make me laugh.  And it was.  In exactly the place I knew it would be.  The Katy Perry line goes, “Summer after high school when we first met, we make out in your Mustang to Radiohead and on my 18th Birthday, we got matching tattoos.” MAKING OUT AND TATTOOS?!?!?!?! For the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the children!  Save the children from this witchcraft!!!  And they do save the children, with the censored lines reading, “Summer right before school when we first met we'd listen every day to Radiohead and when it was my birthday you bought me some balloons”.  Balloons.  FUCKING Balloons?  What high school guy is buying BALLOONS for a girl? It gets better, the Katy Perry line following reads, “Used to steal your parents' liquor and climb to the roof”. Ok, I agree that’s not-so-kid-friendly, but any intelligent parent, if asked by their child what “liquor” is could easily say something like, “Oh it’s candy” and move on.  But no, Kidz Bop assumes that if your kids hear this they are going to become raging alcoholics that make out and listen to 90’s Indie bands while getting *gasp* tattoos, so they changed the lyric to “Used to eat your favorite ice cream and hang by the pool”. 

Did you hear that? That’s my head hitting the desk. Ice cream?  ICE CREAM?!?!
I don’t know many of the other songs on the CD well enough to know whether they were censored or not but based on those above I really don’t understand what the big deal is.  I mean, it’s not like Kidz Bop is covering Ice-Cube or Wu-Tang, so what’s the problem with a couple of “shakes” and “sexy” and a “tattoo”?  I’m really not a fan of other people telling me what my children can and cannot watch or listen to.  Honestly, when I bought the Kidz Bop CD (after Hell froze over), I simply thought that they were popular songs sung by children.  I didn’t know I was going to be told that certain words and themes were not appropriate for my own children and thus they were going to be changed.  I don’t know if I like that.  I’m a responsible parent and I make responsible choices that suit ME and MY FAMILY.  If you want to let your kids listen to Ice-Cube and Wu-Tang that’s your choice, just like it’s my choice to let them listen to songs with the words “tattoo” and “liquor” in them.  Sure, and once in a while my kids will hear a song that may have a “shit” or a “damn” or a “fuck” in it.  Doesn’t mean they are going to run around screaming it.  Why?  Because as THE PARENTS we are the ones who guide them, not some dickheads at some idiot record label.

So prepare for the end of the world.  I bought a Kidz Bop CD that smells suspiciously of “moral majority”.

I’m shaving my head into a mohawk in preparations.

Thank-you, Gracias, Merci, Danke, 谢谢, شكرا , спасибо, , Obrigado, ありがとう, אַ דאַנק

The holiday season begins the time of year where post after post, story after story, is about how “the Atheist” deals with certain religious situations that occur with each tradition. The past weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, I’ve been bombarded with every typical, “How the Atheist can cope” story on my news feed; from large news providers like The Huffington Post to personal blogs like The Friendly Atheist.  Reading all of these stories has made me realize and understand what I am really thankful for on this Thanksgiving 2011.
With all the “givens” aside that I am obviously “thankful” for: my husband, my children, our health and our happy home, friends and family, yadda yadda yadda, it has become glaringly apparent that I should emphasize one very special “thank-you”.
So here goes:
                                                                                                             
This Thanksgiving (and hopefully I am able to retroact this to all past Thanksgivings) I am especially thankful to my parents, Diana and Marcello, who always let me and my brother “be”.  I mean this in the sense that we grew up always being encouraged and supported into finding our own way, whether we fucked up royally or soared with achievement.  My parents never constrained us into a specific “you have to do this this way” or “you have to be this person” and I am quite sure that, after the standards ups and downs of “life”, they turned out some really cool kids. Not to brag, but I think my brother and I are some pretty cool cats.
So when I read these articles during the holidays about how an Atheist should “cope” or speak with fellow Atheists who have to hide who they are at the holiday dinner table, I just realize how lucky my brother and I have it.  We’ve never had to hide anything from our folks (which sometimes results in some pretty TMI conversations).  We’ve never been criticized for who we are or what we believe (or don’t believe).  Sure, both mom and dad are Atheists too, which helps a lot in the whole “non-judgmental” department, but I have a feeling if either my brother or I came home one day as evangelical Christians or Orthodox Jews, my parents would be ok with it. Sure, they’d be a little confused, but aren’t children supposed to confuse their parents to begin with?
So thank-you, mommy and papinos, for letting us “be”.  I know that I will instill those same sentiments in my children so that they may become whoever they wish to be without fear or repercussions.
Now get over here and stuff your faces.

Nail. Head. Hit It.

With Dante now attending a public charter school, hubby and I were faced with the fact that he was going to have to learn and recite the (stupid) Pledge of Allegiance everyday.  We waffled with the notion of teaching it to him beforehand without the whole "under god" phrase since it was not part of the original pledge and since Dante only knows the word "god" as being a word that we don't yell or use because it may "hurt people's feelings".

Before you start yelling at me that I've taught my son that "god" is a bad word, STFU and hear me out.  We taught him that phrases like "oh my god" should be replaced with "oh my gosh" because for some people the word "god" is important and we don't want to be rude.  We also taught him the difference between, "Look at that amazing painting of Jesus Christ" and "Jesus Christ, that painting just fell on me". Big difference.

Anyway, we waffled with teaching Dante the pledge beforehand without the 1950s Cold War era addendum but decided against it, believing that this would be a form of indoctrination that we, as Atheist parents, are completely against when it comes to religion and the like.  Let him learn and say the Pledge, whatever. It's not going to turn him into an evangelist sidewalk bible thumper.  Hell, I played the "virgin" Mary in a Xmas pageant when I was a kid and I turned out ok.  I also recited the pledge throughout my elementary years and was not scarred from it.  (Incidentally, I now do not say or stand for the pledge because I understand it to be a load of bullshit and I don't "pledge allegiance" to any flag or country. My allegiance is with my family, so stuff it. But, as an adult, that is my choice and my right.)

So the other day, Dante came home from school and with a solemn look on his face he said to me, "Mommy, I learned the Pledge of Unlegion today and I said the "under god" part".  I told him, "That's great! You can say it if you want to and if you don't want to you don't have to. Just do what you want!"  And I asked him to recite it for me:

I Pledge Unlegion to flags of the United States of America
And to restructive of witches stands
One Nation ....(then he whispered) Under God
With Limiting and Just Dance for All.

I clapped and said, "Great Dante! Now do you know what all of that means?"

And he calmly replied, "I have no idea, Mommy".

Exactly.

Cry Me Another River

I could sit here and totally lie and say that Nights Three and Four were pieces of cake, but I can't.  I know those of you out there who think I am a cruel mother, abusing her child with this "cry it out" process are smugly patting yourselves on the back, saying "I told you so", but I still think the process works and I am going to continue.  So stuff it. And I mean that lovingly.

Night Three was not too bad. I started putting him down for naps during the day, fully awake, in preparation for what was to come in the evening. He hollered a bit each nap-time, but was asleep within 20 minutes.  I thought that he was getting it, so when night rolled around, Randy, Dante, and I were semi-prepared for it to go smoothly.  Not quite.  Dorian was angry!  Boy was he angry!  He was so angry that I think he developed new sounds just to express how angry he was!  But it didn't last long, fortunately.  Randy only had to go in once for the water/cold cloth/I love you ritual and then it was over. Dorian, was snoring, snuggled in between Elmo and Tigger.  Overnight, he woke up at 1 to nurse and another at 5 (par for the course) and didn't get up for the day until about 7am, all smiles and giggles and "ma ma ma ma ma ma" when he saw me. 

Then.....last night....Night Four.... it all went to caca.

You know when you're sick and have to take antibiotics and the doctor always says, "It's going to get worse before it gets better"?  Well, that was last night. Times ten.  Again, during the day I put Dorian down for naps fully awake.  He would schmickle (i.e. fuss) for about ten minutes and then fall asleep.  All good!  So since it was the fourth night and he had been napping this way as well, I thought....well, we all thought, it was going to be smooth sailing when it came to bedtime.

We were wrong.

It was like we were back on Night One. No, let's say it was akin to negative Night One.  Yet, it wasn't the going to sleep part that was horrible, rather it was the staying asleep that we had a rough time with.  After his usual 20 minutes of fussing, Dorian was out cold.  Randy and I had a pleasant evening watching MasterChef, Dante wasn't disturbed by hollering, and by 10 pm, I was headed to bed (lol, I know, I'm a wild woman).  And then it began.  At 11:40, Dorian awoke. So I nursed him, thinking that he was just up early for his nightly first feeding.  Back in his crib by 12:15 am, I headed back to bed.  No sooner had I fallen asleep, he was up again.  I sent Randy in to take care of him since I wasn't going to nurse again, and since he is extremely attached to me, I try to be invisible during the process so he doesn't get more upset.  He fussed this time for about 10 minutes and we thought we were done for the night.  Nope. 2 am, 2:55 am, 3:30 am, and 4:30 am  he was up.  And all those times Randy laid him down, kissed him and went through the ritual.  I nursed him for the 4:30 waking and was back in bed by 5.  He's still sleeping now, but as I write this I can hear him stirring on the monitor.

Let's see what tonight brings. In the meantime, I'm going to my local Barnes and Noble and picking up this book, ASAP:

Cry Me A River

In the spirit of achieving milestones with our children, Randy and I decided this past Saturday night that it was high time to "Ferberize" Dorian.  No, not Febreeze him (although the way the kid fills up a diaper, one would think that a good dose of Febreeze would freshen him up), but rather the "Ferber Method" of sleep training, better known as "cry it out".  Frankly, at 13 months and 22 pounds, it was getting extremely tedious (and heavy) to walk him to sleep every night.  "Walking" involved Randy, pacing up and down the living room, for upwards of two hours getting Dorian to go to sleep.  In the "old days" when he was a little tiny baby, I could nurse him to sleep and that would be the end of it, but now that he's a big boy, he's still nursing, but not conking out from it.  Dante had already weaned himself from the breast by this point, but Dorian is showing no signs of wanting to stop nursing and I'm not going to stop until he's ready (barring of course, that he is 35 years old and walking down the aisle, a la "Little Britain" style). What can I say? Dorian is a boob man.

I know that the C.I.O. method is a "Mommy War" topic, along with circumcision (our boys are snipped), breast vs. formula (I nurse but don't think formula is poison), religious indoctrination (guess which side we're on), spanking (never, no way, no how, nope, nada), and many others that escape me this early in the morning, but it works for us. Dante was C.I.O'd when he was about this age and he is not emotionally damaged or scarred from it.  Incidentally, you can read about our adventures with Dante's Ferber process HERE, HERE, and finally HERE. Gosh, he was so little. *sigh*

Anyway, Saturday night, Dante spent the night at Nonna and Nonno's and Randy and I decided that it was time to sleep train Dorian.  Having done this once before, you would think that I was prepared for the screaming and crying and guilt (and I'm not talking about the baby), but I wasn't, and it was a rough night for me.  Randy had to keep me from running into the room to swoop up Dorian, as any mother's instincts would dictate when hearing her child in distress, but I was strong and brave (and stuffing my face with ice cream......yes we all have our soothers) and I stuck it out.

Night one was horrible to say the least. Dorian literally howled for hours.  And I'm not talking regular "baby howl", no, Dorian was pissed! You could hear the anger in his voice wondering why the hell he wasn't being paraded all over the house.  Randy went in every 15-20 minutes with a cold cloth, wiped his face, gave him some water, told him he loved him, and would walk out.  I was not allowed in there, due to the aforementioned swooping, so I don't know all the details, but considering I was glued to the baby monitor with my ice cream and Kleenex, I have a good idea of the happenings that went down.  Finally, at about three am, Dorian threw in the towel and laid himself to sleep.  In the morning, he woke up giggling and smiling and clapping his hands to our "good morning" song, showing no signs of trauma, emotional scarring, and/or resentment towards his horrible parents for not letting him rule the household.

I was apprehensive about Night Two and ready for the fight.  Dante was home so Randy and I warned him that he was going to hear the baby scream and yell a lot and to not be upset. "Mommy and Daddy", we explained, "are not hurting Dorian. We are just trying to teach him to go to bed by himself like a big boy."  The stage was set, Elmo was prepped in the bed, storytime was over, the boys said "night night" to each other,  Dante was in bed, and I finished nursing. We were all prepared for "Howlfest 2011, round two".

But it didn't happen.  It didn't effing happen!  I put Dorian in his crib, stuck Elmo in his arms, turned on the music soother, kissed him goodnight and walked out of the room. He fussed (not cried) for about 10-15 minutes, maybe less, and then it was silent. Randy and I were shocked.  We peeked in on him and he was out cold, butt up in the air, snoring away.  Seriously, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would not believe it.  Now here's the kicker. This was at 8pm.  He woke up at 1am for a feeding and was back to sleep by 1:15, and just now at 5 for another. He was awake this time after nursing as I put him back in the crib, repeating the steps from bedtime last night.  After walking out of the room, he hollered for about 5 minutes and then.....silence.  I checked in on him, and there he was, fast alseep.

Could it be that he's"getting it"?  Is this a fluke? One can only hope.  It would certainly be awesome.  Let's see what Night Three brings.

TO BE CONTINUED.......

Sunrise, Sunset

My children celebrated birthdays this week. Dante turned 5 and Dorian turned 1.  If you go back and look at the first couple of blogs I ever posted on Musings from the Crypt, you will see that I was pregnant with Dante and the time and still not technically a mom.  I can honestly say that my children are my entire life and no one who doesn't have children will ever understand what that means.  Not to worry, I'm not one of those crazy people who doesn't think a woman is fulfilled if she doesn't have kids (I know they aren't for everyone), but I have to kvell when I look at my guys.

So here is to my boys.  Happy Birthday to both of them.  May they be surly and ornery teenagers but strong, intelligent, kind, and caring men.

Sunrise, Sunset

Rants, Raves, and The Gays

Apologies in advance if some of the things I discuss in today's blog are a little out of date, but it is virtually impossible to sit down and blog with a very demanding and attached six-month old and and equally demanding four-and-a-half year old. As I write this, the baby which was soundly sleeping is now awake and gurgling in the next room, so on top of the previous apologies, I must add another if my blog seems rushed or disjointed.

Ok so, I have written notes with some talking points on them which may make it seem scattered, so sue me.

First things first, it's obvious that the big story in the news has been the shooting in Tucson. Of course, you have seen the previous posts by the Conservatard referencing my comments on the tragedy on another website. Now while I generally agree that the crazed maniac who committed this act is indeed a crazed maniac, I have to think that the rhetoric by such geniuses of the political world did not help the situation. I find it highly coincidental and suspect that the main target of the attack was a politician who had been "targeted" and singled out by this rhetoric. If Jared Loughner was simply crazed maniac in general then he could have gone and shot anyone, anytime, anywhere. The fact that he carefully planned and chose his intended victim, makes me believe that on top of the whole crazed maniac, he was a crazed maniac with a plan. But this is old news and I've already screamed about it, and been screamed at about it, and all this screaming isn't going to bring back the people who died or the fact that it's still very easy for your everyday psycho to get a gun and shoot up a supermarket in this country.

Yes, the world is a shitty place sometimes and horrible things happen to good people, and sometimes birds fall out of the sky for no apparent reason but the brains behind Generals International, namely Cindy Jacobs, knows the reason why and wants to tell us all: It's The Gays. The Gays are the reason why birds are falling from the sky in Arkansas. It's all The Gays fault with their "gayness" and wanting be treated equally and get married and have children and fight in the military and have their Barbra Streisand and their Project Runway and their Village People! IT'S TEH GAYZ!!!!!



You know, if there was anyone more deserving of a slap in the face with a high school science textbook, it would be this woman. I mean, seriously, how do these people get up in the morning and function? They're idiots. Yes, you're right Cindy! "God" is making birds fall out of the sky because a vast portion of society believes they are deserving of the same human rights that everyone else has! Absolutely. Makes perfect sense. This "god", who is notorious for sending rains that drown all of Earth's population (except for an incestuous man and his family and a handful of non-gay animals), is going to make a bunch of birds die. In one state. In one county. Because of "teh gayz". This "god" who supposedly sent a devastating earthquake to Haiti because they "made a deal with the devil" some two hundred years ago. This "god" who turns his head when young girls and children as young as 18 months old are being gang raped in violent African countries. This "god" who rained fire and brimstione on Sodom and Gomorrah. No. He kills birdies. He kills little bitty birdies to get his point across. Really? Really??????? My eyes just fell out my head they are rolling so hard.

And FYI, the birds "fell out of the sky" because they were stupid. They were killed by blunt force trauma to the head and breast when they became spooked by fireworks and flew into buildings. It had nothing to do with a supernatural entity being upset over "teh gayz".

Next. Anyone catch Ricky Gervais' sign off at the Golden Globes?



I love Ricky and I love how most people don't understand that statement. The religious will be quick to jump on the phrase as Gervais' admittance that he does indeed believe in god and therefore is thanking him, while in fact, the statement itself is riddled with irony. Something lost on the hardcore holy rollers I've noticed. The statement itself implies that the more one studies about the concept, teachings, books, history, etc. about "god" (whichever one you choose), the inevitable conclusion you will reach is that there isn't one/aren't any. In essence, the more you know about god, the less you are likely to believe in one.

Next. I want to hang out with Olivia from Jerseylicious.

Next. It is 2011 and I will be 37 years old in June. I am extremely excited that for one year of my existence on this pale blue dot, I will be able to accurately quote Monty Python and have it be relevant.



Now all I have to do is change my name to "Dennis" and I'll be all set.

Finally (for now, at least), the inevitable "Baby and Big Brother Update" that no one really cares about except me and my immediate family, and possibly some "baby and big brother" fetishist out there in the interwebz.

All is well here. Baby Dorian is six months old, babbling away like he's trying to recite Shakespeare, completely attached to me (I can't leave the room to go to the bathroom without him screaming), and in complete awe of his big brother. Big Brother Dante is loving his Montessori school, obsessed with Transformers (namely Bumblebee and Optimus Prime), ornery, stubborn, and smarter than he should be, and completely in awe of his little brother.



Life is good. I blame it on The Gays.

Chit Chat

Harper Valley PTA, Not Really....

Well, it was inevitable in the grand progression of things. Since becoming a mother, I've watched my children achieve milestones in their development. But, I've achieved milestones of my own as well. I became a Soccer Mom; I became a Disney Mom, I sent my oldest son off on his first day of school; and now, I have reached yet another milestone: I have attended my first Parent-Teacher night at Dante's Montessori Academy.

I have to say that while everyone was really nice, I couldn't help hearing this song in the back of my head as I mingled and grazed over the hors d'oueuvre table.



Sure, it's not like I didn't expect to "stand out" from the other parents, I guess, but what caught me off guard the most was the fact that I did not feel as though I was a parent. In my mind, I was the kid. In my mind, I am still sixteen years old. In my mind, I was not the mother of two children. In my mind, one of the moms I met was forty years old and I thought she was "old" until I realized that I am 36 years old and closer to forty than to sixteen. I felt so strange because I forget that I am a grown-up. I really do. Don't get me wrong, I don't neglect my children and go out clubbing and have this delusion that I am really twenty years old. But, I tend to forget that I am a grown-up. I just think I'm sixteen and still "cool" and relevant. Something which slaps me in the face about how wrong I am when I see a group of alterna-teenagers looking at me funny as I try to "relate' with them about hair dye, tattoos, and The Smiths. Who the hell is My Morning Jacket, by the way and how come none of these kids know who The Misfits are?

True, I don't exactly look like someone who makes rice crispies treats and sends their kid to Montessori school and (soon) piano lessons, but we all knew that was going to be the case. Although secretly, I would have been thrilled beyond belief if, walking into the PTA meeting, I would have come face-to-face with a chunky 30-something alterna-mom who was stuck in the 80's and obsessed with VH-1 Classics. She wasn't there, but I did meet a very nice mom whose son and Dante seem to have "clicked".

It was fun being a parent at a PTA meeting. I got to ask about my child's progress, about his behavior, about him as a student. The most humbling slap back to reality was seeing Dante's "work folder" in which all of his art and writing projects are kept until they are sent home at the end of the month. Inside, I was greeted with the budding personality of my son, independent from me as his mom. I got to be "the parent", asking questions about what activity they were doing when this was made, that was made, and so on and so forth. And I got to be that parent who set aside a box here at home to put away the special art work my child produces throughout the years, so that when he is in his 30's I'll be able to give it to him to look at.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I get it now, mom. I get it.

Driving Miss Daisy.....Sort Of

I have become that driver. You know the one I'm talking about: That driver. The one you get stuck behind when you have somewhere to go; the one who drives the speed limit, maybe even a little bit under; the one with a line of cars behind it on a single lane road; the one where all you see is the top of a head behind the wheel. Well, that's me now. I am coming clean. You can curse, yell, scream, shake your fist at me in my rear view mirror as much as you like, I'm not moving any faster.

What brought on this change? I mean, I used to be the girl who was so leaden on the accelerator pedal that I thought I was bionic in my right foot. I was the girl who could bust out the triple digits on the speedometer on I-95 and still sing all the words to "Hungry Like The Wolf" without missing a beat. Don't get me wrong, I can still never miss a beat to any Duran Duran tune, but these days I'm obeying the speed limit, using turn signals, and pissing off whoever is behind me, both with my bumper stickers and with my overly cautious driving.

So again, you may ask why. Not so obvious answer: I can't afford to pay a speeding ticket. Obvious answer: My kids are in the back seat. More obvious answer: Everyone else on the road is a jackass who could ram into us at any moment.

Seriously, every day I see an accident and they are all caused by an idiot being an asshat behind the wheel. My husband is one of these asshats. Now mind you, when he's got me and the kids in the car, he is a decent driver, but when he's alone he thinks he is Vin Diesel from "The Fast and the Furious" movies. Sure he's got the "Tuner Car" as those who soup up their cars to look and sound like spaceships say, but he doesn't have the Stunt Driver For the Movies experience needed to not kill yourself.




When he's late coming home from work (and his fingers are apparently broken since he hasn't called to let me know), my first thought is that his car has been reduced to pieces no bigger than a penny and he has gone to meet the Flying Spaghetti Monster in his noodly sauce laden ethereal palace.

So I've gone to the opposite extreme. I am sure the people passing my car expect to see an ancient driver who is a veteran of the Civil War, but much to their surprise, they are met with an aging red haired tattooed goth girl singing Duran Duran to her two kids in the back seat.

The fact of the matter is, I'm not going to drive like an idiot......anymore. Sure, I admit I used to, but I also used to go to bed at seven in the morning because I had been up all night partying at a club. Life is different now. I've got two extremely important pieces of cargo in the back seat who are worth more than any of Tutankhamen's priceless artifacts are worth. They're worth more than the Universe is infinite and if it takes me an extra five minutes to get down the road, then so be it.

So if you are stuck behind a black 2004 Toyota Corolla with an Obama sticker and Darwin fish on it, don't curse me out, shake your fist at me in the rearview, and ride up on my back bumper. Instead, pop in some "Hungry Like The Wolf", settle into the driver's seat, and relax. You'll get where you have to go, maybe five minutes later than you wanted to, but you'll get there safely and with Duran Duran in your head. You can't get any better than that.