Now, If I Can Just Figure Out How To Age Like Richard Does.

You know what the very best thing about having a blog is?  It's that you can be all, "Someone bring me a cross to nail myself to!  No one understands me!" and 70 people will immediately remind you that A) you are not alone and B) you actually live on the nice side of the island where the smoke monster doesn't eat you, the Dharma people have buried all the beer, and the children don't take birth control pills, the cops haven't shown up for them, dogs don't drag around their used condoms, and they aren't as old as you were whenst you bore them into the world.

So, yeah, point taken.  I'll be getting back to obsessing over Lost now.


I read a lot of mom blogs.  I hang out with a lot of moms.  Thanks to Little Ms. Whoopsie-Pants, I can still roll with all the preschool moms.  And this time, I'm a respectable age to do it.  But I find that in most situations, blog-related or otherwise, I am the odd man out in one small aspect: I have  kids whose shoes and deodorant I can borrow, too.

It's not as common as I would have thought to have a rather large age gap in your children.  Though some of my favorite blogs are written by mothers of tweens, I find myself greatly outnumbered in the blogosphere.  And in real life, most mothers of kids in puberty have at least 10 years on me.  And less crap in their face.

I am an island.  I am okay with this.

I love reading along as you all navigate through nursing, laughing as you attempt potty training, sighing as you send your darling little ones off to school for the first time.  Because I've done all that already a few times over, and I remember it, and it's no big deal for me three kids in, but your stories help me hold on to the memory of how terrifying and thrilling and gut-wrenching all of those days were.  It makes savour it a little more with my third.  It's a win-win.

I talk about "walking in" on the boys, and you all cringe, but few of you can ever fathom that day.  I don't even mention how I can wear my oldest son's shoes if I'm in a pinch, or how his father has officially started handing him down sweaters, mainly because those are his stories, not mine, but partly because that's not the world I inhabit online.  I swim in the seas of diapers and teething and temper tantrums.  And I'm happy there.

But today I am here to tell you that as much as I love hearing about your children teething, as much as I adore the good laugh I get recalling those late nights, the tooth-poop, the 106 degree fever with each tooth and the subsequent 10 ER trips, the frozen peaches and the gnawed on nipples, the clove oil, the drool all over the new suede coats, the rash on the baby's little bottom much as I want to commiserate and lend you advice and tell you it will all be okay, I am officially out.  You're on your own, guys and dolls.


Because almost none of you are even close to knowing the pain that comes with your precious little angel losing his first molar.

I spent months on that molar.  That molar is lullabies and cuddles in my shoulder and little sweet tears and stories and love.  I loved that little molar.  It signaled his transition from tiny baby to person, nurser to eater, the end of me and the beginning of him.

I take him to the dentist, they put in the sealants and they say things like, Someday, when he's elllllleeeeeevennnn... because 11 is something far far away and untouchable and unimaginable.  Except that it's here.  It's right here under his pillow, waiting to get changed in for a fiver.
I know I'm being ridiculous.  I know that I've already crossed this threshold with him a million times, but something about this just kicked me in the gut today.  Maybe it's because I read all about you all and your little ones with their little milestones and I forget that it wasn't last month, it was last decade.  It was a whole decade ago, and that tooth is never coming out again, never going under a pillow again.


But, in all honesty, I am kind of glad I never have to pay him for at least that one tooth ever again.  The boy, he's bleeding me dry.  Five bucks, my ass.

Eyes Wide Open

The thing I love best about wearing glasses again after a long time off is that I acquire depth perception, which I sorely lack without glasses, and my first day or so is spent tripping up stairs, swaying into walls and almost but not quite throwing up all day.  It's like riding the Tilt-A-Whirl, without all the Britney Spears and the whiplash.

Even better?  Getting your eyes dilated the day before.  Did you know they don't give you those superfly glasses anymore?  They don't.  They "suggest" you don't drive and send you out into the world with your three kids, your husband, a mall on clearance sale, and the vision of a vampire bat.

You know what you should never attempt to do while dilated?  Walk around the mall.  Walk period, for that matter. Oh, and trying to watch after three kids at once?  Will make you barf.  But the good thing is this: You can't see the price tag on your new frames, or the tears in your husband's eyes when he hands over the credit card.  Don't ask, don't tell baby.

You know what else you shouldn't ever attempt whilst dilated?  Talking to anyone you know at the mall, especially if that anyone happens to be the former PTA president and his whole family.  Really especially if it's the same former PTA president who also happens to be the local church minister and the guy who's face you shoved your boobs into last year.

Because as hard as you've tried since your porno-table-dance night to say not two unnecessary words to that man or his family, you'll find yourself stuttering and stammering in the paper towel aisle of the drug store and then you'll inevitably say, "And, um, yeah...just got my eyes dilated.  I'm totally not cracked out on drugs or anything, promise!" right in front of his two precious little children and his one saintly wife.

And then you might just die.  At least hindsight is 20/20.

Or Die Trying

sink or swim

Time will tell.

I don't make New Year's resolutions.  I find new and creative ways to let myself down daily, and I just don't think I could handle that sort of failure.  That said, my darling Maria and I have decided that's it's time to improve ourselves, our lives, little by little, step by step, month by month this year.

Because I can do 30 days of anything.  I think. We'll sink or we'll swim but we're going to get in the water. Publically.

For the next six months, we'll update monthly with our progress and our new goal for the next month, and then in July we'll get really drunk together and undo everything we've worked so hard for.  It's the natural order of things, you know.

Maria's January goal was to stop drinking soda completely and to start drinking more water.  I almost never drink soda anyway and I started drinking a lot more water the day I started getting bladder infections every 28 days on the nose.  So, I took some liberties with her idea.  She did something that she knew needed to be done, something  that seems simple and obvious but was neither for her.  I decided to do the same.

I got glasses today.

Here's the thing: I had glasses, I loved my glasses, and I left them in San Francisco last July.  Here's the other thing: I cannot spend more than $50 without absolutely freaking the fuck out about it for months.  Every time I went to get glasses, I thought of the shoes and the milk and the tires and the diapers we needed instead, and I couldn't make myself do it.  I tried.  I've had the frames picked out for five months; I just could NOT drop the money for them.

The deal with my eyes was that I had a righteously bad astigmatism in my left eye and perfect 20/20 in my right.  My lenses were literally one very bent lens and one piece of plain old plastic.  A few months ago, I noticed that might right eye was just not keeping up as well anymore.  I thought it was me being paranoid, I thought I was just tired, blah blah blah.  I tried retraining my eyes a little, to see if maybe I could just teach my eyes to see properly without my glasses.  (It can be done sometimes.  Shut up.)

Guess who now has TWO eyes with astigmatism?  Yup, I am officially freaking blindish.  I can't ever go without glasses again, because my "I lived through the depression and hoard cash in a cigar box under my mattress" brand of frugality prevented me from getting some stupid, basic, common medical care.

I am pissed as all hell at myself.  Something as obvious as getting glasses, or as drinking water, shouldn't be so hard.  It should come naturally.  But, truth is, sometimes it doesn't.  Sometimes we forget to put ourselves first.  Sometimes I forget to put myself, my health, this body, first.  That's my step this month; pulling my head out of my ass and doing what's obvious and easy and basic.  It's the oil change that's going to keep the engine from seizing on me.

Next month, we're going to attempt some serious carb-free, no cheating, no accidentally tripping and falling face first into brownies healthy eating.  Because now I can actually see the number on the scale, and it's scaring me.

The Shakespeare May Be Pushing It Slightly, I Know.

Dear 2009 Bloggies Organizers:

Is it really that important to you to see The Redneck Mommy and me mud-wrestle each other?  You are aware that we've both borne three large babies each and were left slightly, well, squishy after, right?  Do you realize that all you had to do was show up to BlogHer in July with a blow-up pool, a few packages of Jello and a 6-pack, and you could have achieved the same results in a way more you-tubeable way?

Because this shit right here?


Having us both as finalists for Best Canadian Blog?  It's just mean

  • One: She's going to clobber me.

  • Two: I'm not even Canadian

  • Three: There is no three; I just threw it in for dramatic effect.

What's done is done.  In 10 days, all the voting will be over and we can resume our torrid love affair friendship.  Until February 2nd, however, either thou or I or both with himTO SXSW.  That works.

Mr Lay vs Redneck Mommy: To the Pain!

Polls are open from now until 2 Feb. Choose wisely. Or pityingly. Either way, really.