F$%& You, Eyeliner

My first experience with eyeliner was in 2010 for my bridal portraits. And!! I was I only putting it on the top lid. My justification was because I have small eyes and hooded eye lids and felt like if I lined the bottom then I'd look all smudgy and walk of shame-y. However, now that I'm pushing 40, I feel like there are just some things that have to be done; and lining your bottom lids is one of those things. Lucky for you, I decided that tonight was the perfect time to try it.

For reference, here's what a normal application of eyeliner looks like. When I see other people use eyeliner their application looks like this:

Then, I tried my hand at it. I was skittish so I only did one eye first:

Before you start in with the "Your eyes are not small," bs, they are. I'm fine with it. Basically, my cell production in the womb was really lazy. They were just too tired after growing my larger than average sized head, to "fuss" with my eyes. Whatever. It's fine.

 A few things to note:

1. Yes. Those are elf pajamas. Let's stay focused here. But, Merry Christmas, hope you all got everything you wanted.
2. Yes, I am tired.
3. See how I immediately look like I should be at a concert? Or like I slipped and fell right on my eye? Or like how I look MORE tired?!? 

And then like 30 seconds passed and I look like I've been up for four days straight ...

RIGHT!?! Awful.

You guys. Hide your trash, cause apparently I'll come scavenge in it for food. I look like such an animal!! At this point in the experiment I was feeling like eyeliner can just go die a slow death with the curling iron:

Yeah. I drew on my face. So what? I beat the eyeliner to it. Because this is basically what I was going to end up looking like anyway. Maybe we chalk this mess up to oily lower lids? Because this shit is waterproof and it's like ... all over my baggy under eyes.  

But!! Because I don't give up when I should, I said to myself, "Hey. Look. You aren't a quitter. Let's line the other lower lid." 

I mean. I just constantly torture myself with my internal dialogue. I just need to STFU sometimes!! So this is basically how THAT shit show went:

All in all, I look like the elf of your nightmares. In fact. I bet you'll have one tonight. I would/am. Don't even try to tell me that liquid would go so much better. No. It won't.  

Guys, WE CAN'T ALL BE GOOD AT ALL OF THE THINGS!! So, that's why I say f$%& you, eyeliner. #toplidonlyforLIFE

How Bullet Journaling Cost Me My Sanity and a Small Fortune

Sometimes, I feel like I still don't know who I am or what I want to be when I grow up? Sometimes, I feel like maybe there's something else out there for me? This internal dialogue usually happens in the early morning or late at night or when I'm alone in the car, because it's quiet and I forget that I am a stay at home mom. Then someone starts crying or whining or throwing up or I go on Huff Po or Facebook and read an article on how your child should be potty trained at birth/18 months. 

So! To help solve some of these feels I have, one night last month, I got on Facebook and read a post about how someone was watching Real Housewives and Bullet Journaling AND drinking wine. Immediately I was all WHAT THE!!!! Because!! I am already obsessed with two out of the three of this person's hobbies!! They are basically me but not me!! I quickly wandered over to Pinterest, searched "Bullet Journal" and fell into a dark, dark hole. If I used a bullet journal I was promised hope, DESIRE to be organized iiiii know!!!, beautiful pens that won't smear and all the notebooks that your heart could ever want. Naturally, I was all in. I created a Pinterest board, called my best friend and told her all about it and was really, really freaking excited to go shopping for my supplies. Howeverrrrrr ....

I was totally cheating on this, like, massive 18 month calendar. She has stickers, a front pocket to hold papers !!!!!, an extensive notes and address section and is so colorful and beautiful: 

But she promised me no hope of becoming an organized person over night. So, naturally I fell hard and fast for a "Design Your Own" bullet journal. Plus, a bullet journal is portable. This calendar is basically a stone tablet from the dark ages which made her SO hard to WANT to take with me. And I have to take my calendar with me everywhere because I am basically Dory. Plus, my Pinterest board of bullet journal ideas was staring at me saying bullshit like:

YOU are the pilot, you can plan your calendar exactly how you like, in any order you like, as colorful or as black and white as you like, it's how YOU like. 

Ugh. I'm so controlling. Maybe something some other Pinterest thing can solve for me? Anyway.

Being all googly eyed, I went to Target to shop for my journal. When I look back at this shopping trip now, I can recognize that I was feeling very frustrated and defeated with my ride or die, Target. They didn't really have what I was looking for and I was starting to feel sweaty and nauseated. And sometimes angry? But I rallied and pushed that down because, Target. I was really working hard to suppress thoughts like:  

WTF? Target of ALL places should have BULLET JOURNALS. I mean. Everyone is doing it. Gosh. Hop on the GD bandwagon already. 

I should know myself well enough by now, to know that this should have been a major red flag. But, judging by the amount of times I still get way too drunk, I clearly don't. So. I settled for this journal - on a scale of one to ten, it's a six because she has lines. I'm very OCD so lines mean A LOT to me, so I knew this would not end well. And boy was I right. See below for the decline of Bullet Journal #1:

I love peonies and glitter so naturally, it was love at first sight.

So much time and effort, but realized that it was a lot of effort for me. This was basically exhausting and I think I went to bed early.

Quickly, my kids decided that my bullet journal should be their bullet journal. Just like my food. 

It's basically Abigail's journal. It's fine. 

So. I don't know. I should have just threw in the bullet journal towel. But like our drunk example above and just ... well, if there's one thing I am, it's stubborn. See? We can admit our flaws. It's safe here. Anyway. I wasn't 100% about the journal above so I decided to high tail it to Barnes & Noble, because you know, let's see if we can torture ourselves a little more. And I found one without lines!! For me this was like seeing a unicorn. Situation took a nose dive when I got home; because I tried to take the price tag sticker off the front cover and it left a film. Which side note: why do they do this??? It would be so much easier if the sticker was on the back. For. the. love. Naturally, this rendered it useless. Here are pics to prove it:

See all that sticker film!! (Bottom right corner if you're blind.) Worthless journal. 

She had so much potential. But this also makes me panic a little? 

The reason I have a blank journal to show you, is that my bullet journal career?? Hobby?? Whatever we want to call it, it lasted all of 24 hours. I threw in the towel. I realized I need to stick to what works for me, like this:

I love this kind of journal. Also, if poetry was this, I'd like poetry too.

Sooooo ... I guess ... I guess now I do bullet journal??? But my bullet journal stands for Cabernet Sauvignon. The En ... 

But WAIT!!! How are you staying organized for crying out loud??

Well. I am an organizational work in progress. But to keep my dates in line and my thoughts in order I went back to drinking wine and using a CALENDAR. A beautiful, simple, ikat patterned calendar. And we are very happy together.  

Ain't she a beaut? 

Sticking to what I know.

Staying modest. And portable.

November 6, 2010

Six years. Six years that feel like a lifetime ago where I still remember every detail and feel all the feels as if they were yesterday. Our wedding day was the happiest day of my life. Not only because it was full of happiness and love and JOY but because on this day six years ago Matthew got a Dad. For the first time in his life he had a Dad. Because of this day, for the rest of Matthew's life, he has a man in his life who will not abandon him, who will love him, who will show up for him, who will guide him, who will discipline him, who will show him what success and hard work looks like. A man who will BE there. I still feel so lucky to have found someone who started my family.

Shortly after we got married Mike adopted Matthew. Signed, sealed, delivered - euphoria. Second happiest day of my life. Mike and I knew that one day, Matthew would look at his beautiful skin and realize that he's not at all in the same color family as we are - even though we are a family. We met with a counselor who told us that our concern was very valid and likely this question would not be brought up by Matthew but by other curious children. We told her we needed lots of guidance on how to navigate this specifically because the man whose DNA makes up the other half of Matthew hasn't been a part of his life (his choice) since I found out I was pregnant. She was an angel and gave us lots of great advice and talking points - that I never would have been able to come up with so eloquently on my own. Even armed with these great words, I felt a pit in my stomach that I would have to have this conversation one day. But life continued along at warp speed.

And then this Spring, in the car on a sunny day, I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. Matthew says:

Why is my skin not the same color as the sisters? Why do they have peach skin and I have brown skin? Am I Indian? Why do I look so different? 

His words were very demanding. There was no getting out of it. The time had come. I responded:

Do you know what color hair Nana and Papa have? Black. Like yours. Do you know whose eyes you have? Mine. Do you know how much you look like each of your sisters? So much!! Bud, families are made in all sorts of different ways and tonight I want to talk to you about how our family was made, ok? But right now you need to understand that you are made up of many different parts of our family - the color of your skin is just the way God made you. Absolutely perfect.

I will never forget that day. It truly sucks having an adult conversation with a child. Later that night we had a deeper conversation like I had promised:

Do you remember where you lived as a baby and before our wedding day? With Nana and Papa. And then Daddy found us and we got married - do you remember that? How much fun that day was? Daddy has loved you ever since he met you. And then do you remember how after Daddy married us, we had the sisters? Well some families are made after you have a wedding. Some families are made before. Some families are made by adopting children, some people have two families because they are divorced. Before Daddy found us, Mommy met a man who had black hair like you and brown skin like you and that's how you got such perfect skin. And Mommy loved you from the minute that God put you in my belly. And Nana and Papa love you so much - and your uncles love you so much - And Daddy loves you SO MUCH - everyone basically loves you SO MUCH. There's not a day of your life that you weren't loved.  

He asked a few questions in between but he loved hearing about how much he was loved. Then we looked at some pictures of when he was a baby and that's been it since. We kept it about the love. Mike and I thought it was important to not lie to him, as did the counselor. But she also said to keep things simple until their minds can handle the bigger conversations. The last thing you ever want to do is stress a child out.

That is the very long version of the importance of our wedding day. Our family story of how we were made. A day of gratitude and joy that will always hold such special meaning. When things feel hard and life feels hard and conversations feel hard I try to hold onto these sayings:

                      

                      


Cheers!

**Please know that the conversations here are personal to our family specifically between me and our child. It may not apply to all families or situations. I also know what my child can handle - emotionally and mentally and socially. Please if you decide to comment keep it kind and thoughtful. Thank you!**

Exorcism, Possession and Animal Role Play

You may have heard me say this before, but if I had a penny for every time I said:

My kids are possessed, or 

My kids need an exorcism

I'd be rich. Not the richest. But pretttttttty rich.

Usually, what precipitates these phrases is when my kids pretend they are animals. You may have noticed on your own that when kids pretend they are animals it's either cute AF or creepy AF. Because my kids take everything too far, it's for sure creepy AF. Since I like to help others, and because I have extensive experience in children pretending they are animals, I have outlined below the three stages of animal role play. Enjoy!

Stage 1

This is your sweet, innocent dog/cat role play. This stage has you thinking:

My kids are using their imagination!! No one can judge me for too much TV time now!!

Should you encounter this stage more than three times per week, it's a red flag that Stage 2 is imminent. Mine usually let me know they are approaching Stage 2 when they help themselves to cups or bowls from their kitchen set, fill them with water and then proceed to lap up the water. All the while meowing and barking. Also, in this stage they become humans only to momentarily shout back to your plea for please no mess by saying:

But MOMMA!! We're cats/dogs! That's what cats/dogs do!

In Stage 1 it's fine to pick your battles because you aren't Code Red just yet.

Stage 2 

This stage is  more severe. This is your lion or tiger or bull or longhorn role play. You actually sometimes in this stage have to yell say:

STOP IT!!!! You are going to kill/hurt yourself/sister/brother!!!!

You can't pick your battles in this stage because of risk of serious injury. Timeout is a nice starter. After which, they will go right back to a less aggressive lion/tiger/bull/longhorn. I'm warning you now, this won't last long before someone takes it too far again and you need to act fast. Because injury/death is near. Not to mention it's starting to feel creepy. 

Stage 3 

Code red, holy crap, this is the stage where they have truly crossed over to the other side. You worry about their mental health because they are so IN character. There is no less than 100% certainty that you will say:

OMG. They are totally possessed.

And you have the Internet search history to prove it with gems like, "Exorcism in Frisco, TX." This stage has the most obscure animal role play to include: ring tailed lemurs, crocodiles, panthers, wolves, squirrels, fish, dolphins, etc. Writing this I wish I didn't know these from experience. The dolphin was especially interesting. 

When my kids pretend they are reptiles or ring tailed lemurs wtf? it's usually after watching Wild Kratts on PBS. This show is a blessing and a curse. A couple years back, my children were ring tailed lemurs and they were on all fours and proceeded to rub their butts and backs on every wall in the house. When I protested this, they said:

But this is what ring tailed lemurs DO!! We are IN OUR natural habitat!!

Trigger word for me here is their use of the word "our." Like they are truly not able to distinguish between human child and lemur child. And let me tell you this!! I will not add to my search history "Natural habitat ring tailed lemurs" or "Ring tailed lemurs rubbing off on walls." For one, I don't care. I don't want to know that information. And for two. No! No, no, no. Whatever. So, I left it at:

Great. Don't break anything. 

While I likely poured myself a large glass of wine and cried in a corner - both out of need and fear. Because you never know!!! With Stage 3 animal role play ANYTHING can happen. It's also impossible to discipline in this stage because they are so far gone. I mean they literally think they are the animal. If you get here, pray that it's short lived. 

I have now armed you with what I think are the necessary things to watch out for to determine your kids level of animal. And if all else fails - WINE. 

That time I smoked some serious crack

For the record, crack is metaphorical. I have never smoked literal, actual crack. But metaphorical crack? I would be classified as an addict. When I come down from my high, I usually learn a life lesson. It is what it is, kids.

Last Fall, after picking up Abigail from preschool one afternoon, there was a flier in her backpack about registering for the 2016/2017 school year. Abigail would be going to our assigned public school for Kindergarten but Mae! Mae would absolutely be going to preschool!! Over the course of the following months through about January, it dawned on me that I was not comfortable with Mae going to preschool. After discussing the option of not sending her with my mom and a few other trusted friends, I decided to keep her home with me. She has a November birthday, so her school career is going to include many, many years. 

Here's where I put my metaphorical crack in a spoon and took a lighter to it and went to town ...

I will be able to do so many THINGS with her! We can do library THINGS, story time THINGS, musical THINGS, park THINGS!

Then, I decided that I needed more metaphorical crack, because I still don't know my limits as a 35 year old, and actually said ...

It will be SO easy having JUST one at home!

I'll let you process that for that a second. I said it out loud ... to other people!! To other mom's!! #iwasanass

See what I mean about the crack? WHAT WAS I THINKING!!! Then at some point we also decided to get a dog? WTF? WTF WAS I THINKING. I mean. Clearly, I overdosed.

You see, we live in a society that places a LOT of emphasis on this math equation:

MORE of anything = HARDER than everyone else

HARDER than everyone else = BETTER than everyone else

And it really drives me bat shit crazy, because it isn't true AT ALL. As you can see from my experience above, I bought into this equation back in the Fall - three kids is harder than one kid. Three kids and a dog is harder than one kid and a dog. Three kids and a dog is harder than a dog. WRONG. Wrong. Wrong. wrong.

A kid, or kids, and/or a dog aren't JUST. They are living beings that rely on their parents, or their owners, or foster parents, or adoptive parents; to care for, and love them. Whether you have one of these or six of these, or some combination of all of the above, it's hard. Hard work. Living with a dog is like living with a mime. You are constantly trying to figure out what they are thinking, why they aren't listening, what hurts them, why aren't they listening? OH right. It's cause you are trapped in that box. *eye roll* #mimesarecreepydogsarecute

We need to do a better job of appreciating everyone's life and recognizing that whether they have more or less than we do, they are doing hard work.

Ask me how many of those THINGS* I actually do, that thought I would be able to do with JUST one at home?

None.

Because it's hard. Taking care of one is hard. Trying to get anything and everything done with one is hard. Having a dog is hard. My God, let's give each other some credit. Cut each other and ourselves some slack. Moms and fur moms alike need a tribe, NOT one more reason to overfill that wine glass at the end of the day.

I have no regrets keeping Mae home with me this school year. I understand this is time I will never get back and I love being able to experience cleaning and laundry and dishes and carpool and errands with her by my side. But none of it is easy because loving a living being, someone other than yourself, isn't to be taken lightly and certainly isn't easy.


*Fun fact: In an effort to give Mae some of those experiences I wanted to back in the Fall, I signed her up for a tots soccer class. It will meet once a week for eight weeks. Well, they just called to say it was cancelled because they are getting new turf.

The TGIF Shit gods

It's 9:45 am on Friday and I've already bathed the dog and Mae. If I saw that sentence on Facebook I'd be all Shut your face, you overachiever. Or maybe even Oh good for her, she's finally mastered time management. Well, get ready to feel better about yourselves kids! 

The dog, Walter, has had a bath because he was rolling in his own shit in the backyard, got all muddy, and was later drinking from the toilet. My kid has had a bath because she shit herself AND the stairs. The events of this morning have changed my day. I had hopes of making a spaghetti squash in the crock pot with my own meat sauce for dinner! What!!!?!? However, now, when I think of dinner, I think of the shit I just wiped off my kid; so dinner is might be a bottle of wine and a big ole middle finger. It's fine. 

You are probably saying to yourself, How does all this happen? What are you doing while everyone is shitting themselves? Happy to explain, especially since I'm in the business of making people feel like they have their shit together, while I do not. When the dog goes out, Mae goes out. She brings everything with her to go out: sippy cup, bowl of fruit and a toy. While I'm out with the dog she will want to go back in. Because WE APPARENTLY WANT WHAT WE CAN'T HAVE ALL THE TIME. Mae can't open doors. Which basically translates into me either letting people in or out of the house all day. As most of you know for shit to get real it takes about 5 seconds. I'm also allergic to whining. Highly allergic. There was a lot of that as I let Mae inside. I made it stop and got her a drink of GD water while the dog was outside, in the backyard that's fenced in, unattended. I even thought I'm sure the dog will be fine for like .5 seconds. WRONG. Hence the shit, mud sequence. The toilet water came when I was cleaning Mae's shit off the stairs. Mae ran upstairs in her room, where she was probably playing with her shit, and the dog went into the downstairs bathroom and was drinking the toilet water. Mae shits herself because she's still in a diaper. #judgeaway

When shit like this happens to me and involves actual shit, I want all the sympathy, all the kudos, all the reassurances that I don't have SARS or ebola or (insert awful disease acquired by shit here). Because it's so. disgusting. By the way, isn't Friday when we say Thank God It's Friday!!! I mean WTF, Friday?!? This morning the only god that heard me say Thank God It's Friday!!! was the god of shit. Friday Shit Gods I surrender. This is not a weakness issue but rather a sanitation issue. You are gross AF. Let's collectively hope, for the dinner options for my kids if nothing else, that this day gets better. 

The Curious Case of the Pussy Pocket

Like you, I hate the p word. The details listed in this blog are not ones that I am proud of as a parent, but I had to share because I just can't even sometimes. At the time the p word was used, it was in the most innocent way. Lastly, it's sad that there are two parts to this story and I will move mountains to ensure that there's not a third. Pray for me.

Part 1
Last week, while I was straightening my hair, Matthew was playing a game on my phone in my room and Abigail and Mae were watching a show in the family room. (Which is right outside our first floor master bedroom.) The girls were perfectly calm and occupied and I have a hard time doing two things at once, especially with a hot iron in hand, so I wasn't giving Matthew much attention. With one ear open I think I hear the word pussy? I told myself:

No way, you're just hearing things.

Because there's absolutely NO logical reason why annnnyone in my family would use that word. So, I continue to focus all my attention on straightening my hair, keeping one ear open. Then I hear Matthew giggle and say:

Siri. Show me a picture of Boushie Parker. (Read: He asked Siri to show him a picture of Mae)

Now, that both my ears are open, I hear Siri, clear as day respond with: 

I'm sorry. I can't find any images of a pussy pocket on the web.

At this moment the only thing that comes to my mind is:

Fuck.

Matthew starts giggling and comes into the bathroom with a big innocent smile on his face and an eruption of laughter and says: 

Momma!! I asked Siri for a picture of Boushie and she said A PUSSY POCKET???!!!!! WHAT EVEN IS THAT??!??? I know what a pocket is but a PUSSY???!!!!! WHAT'S A PUSSY!?!??

As he's talking I'm all WTF, Siri!!! Also, slightly surprised and grateful she couldn't find a picture, doesn't the Internet have a picture of everything? I have so many weaknesses as a person and parent and one thing that I clearly need to work on is thinking on feet and becoming better at lying. Because I told my  9 year old the severity of the word "pussy" ... while he's giggling ... because that's what you do when you hear pussy pocket for the first time.

Sweet Mother of God, then there's Part 2:

Yesterday was a wash from the get go. Mae came into our bed at zero dark AF thirty and neither she nor I fell asleep til around 5 am. At 6:30 Matthew came down, got the dog out of his crate - at which point Mae was up and out of bed to participate - they took him out to the backyard to do his dooty. Mike was up at 7 to get ready for work.

Usually in the mornings, I try to stay in bed for as long as I possibly can - desperately hanging on to any small fragments of sleep that the kids will allow me to capture. While lying in my bed I am able to yell into the family room from my bed when I hear things getting out of hand. Depending on how much sleep I got, I sometimes try to convince by babies to come in and snuggle. That wasn't the case yesterday. I tried my hardest to keep them relegated to the kitchen until it got to the point where I felt like I was being a bad mom.

Mike left around 7:30 at which point I got up and put my contacts in. I came out into the kitchen to find Mae at the dog bowl, eating dog food with the dog. Wait? What??!???? As I scream at her to:

OMG!!!STOPIT!!!OMG!!!

And pry her mouth open to try and remove as many remnants of dog food as I can, the dog goes into the dining room and pees on the rug. Awesome. Is it too early to drink?!?

In the afternoon, I took the kids to the mall. I was on a unsuccessful quest for a new handbag. During this excursion I was told I was the meanest mommy ever because I wouldn't buy them every GD thing they saw or touched. In every story they asked when were were going to leave because they were soooooooo bored! So, after the millionth time they asked, I responded with:

Never. Keep asking and we're staying here until the store closes. 

The we love you so much, Momma's and the you are the best Momma ever's came rolling in after that.

After providing free birth control for everyone at the mall, I took the kids to get take out Chipotle for dinner because Mike was at a team dinner for work. Back home, after the kids have finished eating and are running around playing puppies, I'm cleaning up reflecting on how the day seemed to have redeemed itself from the morning's antics. That's where I went wrong, you think I would have learned by now to never reflect on how your kids redeemed themselves when there are still waking hours in the day. As if reading my mind and wanting to prove me wrong, Matthew comes up to me at the kitchen sink with this gem: 

Hey Momma!! When the dog is being bad we should call him PUSSY POCKET!!!

SHUT UP. Are you kidding me? I have to digest these words AGAIN!!???!!! What did I ever do to deserve this??? While he's giggling uncontrollably, my eyes are as big as saucers trying to stifle laughter and process all of this. At which point Abigail, not to be outdone by her older brother, strips off her shirt and screams:

LETS GET NAKED AND HAVE A DANCE PARRRRRRTYYYY!!!!!

Today's agenda:

1. Dropping my kids off at church.
2. Leaving them there until they are AT LEAST 30. At. Least.

Treasure Box

Some people hate the words moist or panties. I hate the words treasure box. For me, they are only associated with whining, nails on a chalk board ... waterboarding.

Dick.

You see a sweet, adorable chick hatching out of an egg. If you held it you'd be able to tell that it's an eraser.

I see an asshole. All because Matthew brought it home yesterday along with these words: 

I got to go to the treasure box!

I was happy for him, proud even but cringed because I knew that in no less than five seconds the tears, the begging, the whining would start. You see, it's a given from Day One that when someone w/ treasure = them w/o treasure that THE WORLD IS OVER. Treasure box for parents has the intrinsic ability to immediately transport us to that Special Ring of Hell (I have VIP seats).

I wish I could tell you that there's a cure for treasure box, but there isn't a cure. There is only time. In time, the item will get lost (accidentally or on purpose) or it will break. And then you cross every finger and every toe and hope to GOD that your next interaction with treasure box is far, far, far off into the future.