My husband and I have just welcomed home a beautiful girl; she is approximately 59 inches long and weighs about 100 pounds. She sleeps through the night but goes to bed late, and usually her nighttime feedings include Nutella and crackers- that she gets herself. My husband and I sleep right through those late night snacks. And before you ask- not that’s it is any of your business- it was a natural childbirth. It just happens that the childbirth took place nineteen years ago.
“Not to be rude, mommy, but how long do we have to do that for?” My eight-year-old daughter Maggie asked from the backseat of the car.
Minutes before, I had explained to our three children that the previous week had been rough at work for their dad, and I encouraged them to give him a little extra support and encouragement during what was a difficult time for him. As if penciling in “Be nice to dad” in her calendar, was Maggie asking me how long we needed to keep up this sympathetic charade?
This week, Mark and I finally got our asses in gear and started the whole process of setting up a will and trust for our estate. Our possessions barely qualify for an “eh” let alone for an estate, but we do need a plan in place for the sake of our spawn. I am not against thinking about my mortality and it’s always good to prepare for the unplanned, but my mind kept forming jokes as we went through the paperwork. Here is what I wanted to put as part of our Last Will and Testament, had our lawyer had any sense of humor about the whole thing. Instead I was “taking up her valuable time” by being “so childish” and that I needed to “stop making zombie noises.”
It is a question that I both love and dread: “Where did you grow up?” My standard reply is, “I was born in southern California- Fountain Valley- then moved to Phoenix, Arizona, then Scottsdale, Arizona, then Houston, Texas, then Beaumont, Texas, then back to southern California- Mission Viejo- then to Las Vegas. But I have been in the Bay Area for 15 years now.” I love that question because it seems to be a bigger conversation starter than most of the things I say. I dread it because it seems to be a bigger conversation starter than most of the things I say.
“Put it down, mom. Put the marker down. Stop, mom. Walk away from the table, mom.”
I am not the kind of woman who enjoys reprimanding her own mother in a room full of 3rd graders, but I will when it’s necessary. And this was necessary. My mother had started to tidy up a dirty table while the teacher was explaining to the students what her expectations were for cleaning up at the end of class. On our walk home, I decided to talk to my mom about why I scolded her. “You were trying to clean up as the teacher was telling the kids that that was their job.”
We all need a friend that helps us step out of our comfort zone. They are the type of person who throws some uneasiness at you to help you grow as a person. Hopefully, you have one of those. But has yours ever told you “I will ruin you”? My friend, Kim, has said that to me because she is my tear down your comfort zone and force you to eat it friend. Kim’s objective is making sure I never feel comfortable for too long and that is how she got me kidnapped by a psychopathic, nymphomaniac serial killer.
“This disgusts me,” I said, holding the t-shirt up so my sister could see. Printed on the bright blue shirt was a cute caricature drawing of a wide-eyed white bunny. Above the rabbit were these three words: “Boys are stupid.” My sister laughed at it, a lot less perturbed than I was. “I don’t think this is funny,” I said, putting the bad bunny back on the rack. “If my daughter came home to her brother and father wearing this, I would rip this shit off her and scream.”