A Musing Mother 6

My daughter texted me in the middle of the school day. Her:  My period started.  Can you come and get me? Me:  Mine, too!  We're like twins!  *SQUEEE*! Her:  Ha. Ha. Me:  Did you soil yourself? Her:  It's not visible. Me:  Then why do I need to come and get you? Her:  It feels weird. Me:  Welcome to my world. Her: Me:  Where are you? Her:  In the bathroom. Me:  How long have you been there? Her:  20 minutes. Me:  That's just plain sad. Her:  Can I call Grandma and tell her I'm sick? Me:  No, you can't lie to Grandma. Jenn:  Hey!  When are we going to lunch? Me:  I'll be in town in two weeks!  Will you be around? Jenn:  We'll be moving out of our house but let's do lunch and call it therapy.  HA! Her:  Mom?  Are you still there? Me:  Therapy it is!  Are you bringing the Klonipin au de toilette? Her:  Why do I need therapy?  What are you talking about? Me:  Oops.  Sorry.  I'll be there in 20 minutes.

I was never really into the big hair bands. Except for a little Def Lepard, a lot of Bon Jovi, and, okay, so REO Speedwagon had big hair for awhile but, really. Who could blame them? All their contemporaries were doing it. I made my feeble attempts. At least I got the purple eyeshadow and the line of severe blush on my cheekbone. Eventually, the big hair bands dissolved into history. Because really, big hair was a bad idea. But Bon Jovi was never a bad idea. Except his big hair days (shudder). Tuesday night I cashed in on the Christmas present my husband gave to me. I let Jon Bon Jovi flash his perfect smile at me. *snicker-snort* I let him serenade Livin' on a Prayer and Always. And I danced like it was 1989 while singing at the top of my lungs. Embarrassed? No way. I was in good company with the rest of the middle age audience. Some of whom hadn't gotten the memo: Big hair is history. And good riddance. If you squint, you can see Scott and I. Squint really

Except for less pictures, things haven't changed much.

Last week I registered a darling girl for school.  She came with her dad and they had an open, friendly relationship.  I took to her immediately and she took to me.  Her dad openly admitted that his daughter's credits were severely lacking due to a huge family crisis that nearly destroyed the family about a year ago.  But they've patched that up now, he said.   And yet....   I totally felt like he was flirting with me.  He seemed to be interested yet I couldn't quite fathom why he would be doing so.  I flashed my ring, he studied my pictures of kids and husband in my office, he asked questions about my husband and I answered.  He'd already mentioned that his marriage was intact.  It wasn't creepy or alarming.  Just peculiar.   Today the girl came in with her essay for study skills.  I made conversation when I noticed she is the oldest of 11 children.  She started talking about stepbrothers and sisters and then just admitted as easily as "the sky is blue"

A talent agency interviewed my 15 year old someplace last week.  Then someone called from Hollywood to tell her an audition will be held on March 26th.  Anna-Marie (That's Onna) will personally be there for the audition.  It totally pissed me off that they are preying on the insecurities of teenage girls AND trying to sell them something without parental input.  Except the sales doesn't come until the audition, of course.   If her parents tell her it's a scam and it's not and she loses an opportunity, we've ruined her future.  So I had to debunk her myself.  I took the telephone from her. It filled me with a certain amount of perverse glee.   What's the process, exactly?  I asked. Oh.  We do movies like Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, Nacho Libre, etc. etc . What exactly do you "do" with Angelina and Brad? We don't do Ang and B, we do actors and actresses like them. What part did you play in Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Nacho Libre?

Xanax has a 5 hour half life. Just to clarify this - 5 hours after taking a Xanax, only half of it remains in your system.  In other words, if you take a Xanax at 11:00 P.M., and you wake up at 4:00 A.M., you can't count on the drug to lull you back into your dreams.  On the bright side, you've just enjoyed 5 hours of heavy, drug-induced sleep. Now that I have stated scientific fact, I would like to take a moment to negate this because it can not be counted as gospel truth.  However, what can be assumed is - Don't mix drugs. Let's assume I have a gut-wrenching, hacking, keep-everybody-up-all-night kind of a cough.  For reasons I can not, for the life of me, understand, my sons are sleeping in my room with my husband and me.  One politely takes a spot on the floor.  The other is still referred to as "Oedipus." So now we'll assume that I take the cough syrup that contains a trace of codeine.  Not enough to wake up with a hangover, but enough that my cough wi

The catalyst happened in Sunday School.  Josh made the age-old half joke that mothers get a free ticket to heaven, no questions asked.  A young father of four, his wife given birth to their fourth child only 7 months ago, she had been incapacitated twice since due to surgeries.  He discovered very quickly how much his wife does. Even as I type this now I can't fully articulate what snapped or why.  One brave young mother stuck her neck out and began my own articulation of how I was feeling.  We are forced to be selfless when we become mothers.  Did I sit a little taller?  Feel pride for all my sacrifice?  Recognize my self worth?  No. I burst into tears. Don't call me selfless.  Don't tell me I'm a great mom.  Don't tell me I've earned my way into heaven.  I do love my children dearly and I have sacrificed to be the mother I am but I am not selfless.  I am not serving my family with an attitude of gratitude.  I feel resentment and sometimes bitterness.  I resent

I found my first gray hair last week.  What I mean is the first gray hair on my mane.  A couple of months ago I found a maverick eyebrow.  I plucked it and found it was gray.  A few months before that I noticed that the coarse black hairs I hate so much that grow from moles were no longer black.  My first gray hair showed up about three years ago and was further south.  That's all the detail I'll give. The gray hair joins the litany of my middle age complaints.  Sagging skin on my jowls.  Wrinkles. Soft middle scarred with stretch marks like cat scratches.  Holding my books farther and farther from my eyes.  What's next?  Chorister arms?  Hip replacement?  A housedress? Deep down, though, I'm pretty proud of my body.  It certainly isn't the model skinny you see on the front of magazines but it has done some amazing things. May 26, 2005.  The day I stopped loving Tom Cruise.  That is the day he slammed Brooke Shields for publicly announcing her reaction to postpa

1. Hurt when you step on them. 2. Crawl into every nook and cranny. 3. Like the vents. 4. Are loud and obnoxious when sucked into the vacuum. 5. Then spit back out on your foot.  We're back to they hurt. 6. Entertain little boys for hours and hours and hours on end. 7. Until little boys are tuckered out and just lay down in a pile of Lego And go to sleep.

My 13 year old was making a sandwich.  She took out all the ingredients and turned to ask me to cut a piece of cheese for it.  I told her I would then forgot when I went to my bedroom to change my clothes.  A few minutes later she found me in my closet and her dad on the bed. "Mom, will you please cut my cheese?"  Scott and I looked at each other and shared a grin. "Usually other people can't do that for you, honey." "Whenever I try to cut the cheese, it just goes all 'phtthppbbb.'" That pretty much did it.  Scott and I were doubled over laughing and the poor daughter rolled her eyes and left us.

I love the printed word. I love to look at sentence structure and hear the tone I have assigned to the writer. I decide the eloquence of speech when I hear the accent and timbre. I love the sound of certain words inside my head. I roll them around, take them apart, put them back together again. I love to read a word, hear it inside my head, and giggle to myself because the spelling is nothing like the sound. Phlegm. Disgusting when heard, intriguing when seen. I love to read a good blog post. I enjoy a well written sentence and a cohesive essay. I like to take my time reading interesting sentence structure, intriguing words (sometimes repeating them to myself multiple times), then savoring the after taste when I finish. I also like to determine whether I skim an essay or ingest. This brings me to a trend that some bloggers simply must rethink. Vlogging. For reasons not understood, some people simply have a gift of writing. Through the organization of their words, feelings

This week I am taking part in Writer's Workshop. Some of you have already read this story but I think it is worth repeating. The prompts are I chose is:  Tell us the story of how your pet came to be a member of your family. (Inspired by Busy Day Blog ) Sunday Will Come I have been thinking about an experience all day and feel that I need to share it. For what purpose and for whom, I don't know, but it's been on my mind. Perhaps it was remembering while driving to work this morning or maybe it was the conversation I had with an old friend later today as she shared with me her very real and difficult struggles. Two and half years ago, our old dog, Maggie, died of old age. It was a sad day for all of us. We cried until our eyes were swollen. We planned on getting another dog after an appropriate grieving period. Instead, our lives were turned upside down with events we couldn't control. We went through a very, very dark time where things went from really bad to worse. When