One Way to Scare ‘Em Off

There was a knock on the door.

Or there must have been, but I couldn’t hear it. Someone was crying at the top of her lungs.

About what, I don’t know. But Abby was a furious rage-filled torpedo, bounding from one room to another lost in a tantrum. I tried seeking a solution. I asked her to explain the problem, in detail and with graphs if possible. I wanted her to discuss her inner turmoil with me in a calm and reasonable tone. Of course that didn’t work. Next, I tried reassuring and consoling. I even hushed. Wine, perhaps? None of it was helping. She seemed content to see the fit through to the end. Thus I turned to the only option left; I ignored.

I once read that ignoring a tantrum is the best method. I’m unsure if this is true or not, my eardrums would lead me to believe otherwise since it makes a heck of a noise.

Settling on the screaming bloody murder method, I hid from my child in the corner of our kitchen, next to the chocolate, though her wails were still fully audible. That’s when I looked out the window, a view overlooking our front porch, and saw a nicely dressed woman dashing away in her heels. Hastily throwing her religious brochure in the handle of our door as she ran, not once looking back. And for a moment, I thought of calling out to her, “Wait, come back, I need to be saved! Save me!”. Though I don’t think that’s the salvation she had in mind.

Party Every Day

Music doesn’t move me much anymore. I just don’t listen to a lot of it. In fact, my kids weren’t born yet the last time I found myself truly infatuated with a band or musician. When I do, though, I prefer real instruments. I want guitars and drums, a noticeable talent, I don’t want auto-tune. An overwhelming number of recent artists, however, all sound like prepackaged pop from the same factory. It was so much better back in my day.

That’s right, I’m old.

Give me some classic rock, though, and I can sing right along.

We were watching television when a background song came on. “That’s Ozzy Osbourne”, he told me. He’s a big fan of Ozzy, with partial thanks to Iron Man. Except this time, it clearly wasn’t Ozzy.

“No, that’s Kiss”, I corrected.

“No, Kiss is not a name”, he stood firm. Like duh, mom. “It’s Ozzy Osbourne.”

“Fine, if you want to be specific, it’s Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons from the band Kiss singing Rock ‘n Roll All Night,” and zing. Don’t question mama and her rock music. I even looked a video up on YouTube to show him the band in all their makeup, singing the tune live. Surely there’s no room for argument anymore.

I forgot that he has inherited a steadfast bullheadedness. He walked away from the computer without taking in 10 seconds. “Nope, that’s not it. It’s Ozzy.”

But at least we’re not arguing over Justin Bieber.

Joys of Pregnancy

Pregnancy alters many aspects of a woman’s shape. Some, we’re prepared for. We’ve all heard stories of sagging and flabbing, so while we may fight against the odds, we also come to accept the possibility. The more confident amongst us even find strength and beauty in what their weight carried, wearing their 9 months of stretched skin with pride. While I can’t say I’m thrilled with the body I’ve acquired these years post-pregnancy, I am in awe of it. In both good and bad ways.

But it’s the other changes of a less physical nature. The kind that no one bothers mentioning ahead of time, making it your very own personal surprise.

Like underarm body odor.

Before my first full-term pregnancy with Jedi, I never had to wear deodorant. I would at times, for an extra measure of protection, but it wasn’t a necessity. I swear, they just didn’t smell. It was a blessed thing in hindsight. Because since, if I should fail to remember to apply deodorant, I’m immediately reminded of my blunder come one raised arm later when the depths of a burning stench, not unlike a skunk in a mode of defense, tries to escape. In other words, I stink. And God help us all.

There is no beauty in body odor.

Now, with the heat of summer comes sweat. And with the first bead of sweat comes an aroma all my own. Where every time I catch a nose-cringing whiff of myself, I’m once again reminded of the eternal joys of pregnancy.

A Blog Post About Not Writing a Blog Post

It has taken me all day to write a blog post that usually takes 10 minutes.

I’ll let you in on a behind-the-scenes secret; My posts are not carefully considered, researched vessels. They’re our stories, usually in 300 words or less, and for the most part write themselves. I edit, of course, trying to spin our mundane into a tale enjoyable to read. But at my best, I can churn a week’s worth of entries in one sitting.

Which is why it’s absurd to take 2 hours for a single poorly-worded paragraph.

I’m unsure if it’s from the time of year, all three clamoring for attention in the heat of an early summer, or if my kids have really just been especially needy this week, but I can’t sit down long enough to gather a cohesive thought. There’s a kid in my lap, or in my face, urging one of a million actions that are of utmost importance at that particular point in time. I try to argue. Can I just finish this sentence first? This one sentence that I’ve been battling out of the keys with such resistance. But in acceptance of defeat, I close my laptop and settle in for yet another telling of Curious George Flies a Kite instead. That crazy monkey.

This. Life. It is where my blog posts come from anyway. There is nothing to write about if I don’t live it. I sometimes get too caught up in documenting.

So it took all day, literally from morning til night, to complete an entry, finally saving it to drafts once the kids are in bed. It should have been a penned work of genius. Except I spent all that time just to scrap it at the last minute and write this instead.

Picasso

Take a good long look at this face.

I know. I ask if I can take a picture on his last day of school and this is the best he gives me. My point proven on this post.

But this boy. He may very well be the next Picasso.

At least he is to me, anyway. His creative eye, and that picture, they both just slay me.