A Mother’s Love is Not a Mother’s Like

I truly love my son.  I do.  I really love him.  The thing is…..there are times when I just don’t like him very much. 

The weight of the guilt I used to feel about this used to keep me up at night. I used to pray to be a better mom.  I prayed for patience, a lot.  I asked God to forgive me for being such a disgusting person.   I prayed that my very occasional dislike for Son was just a reaction to the Terrible 2’s or the Whiney 6 year-old Stage or the 14 year-old I Know Everything, You’re Just Stupid Stage. 

Then, I remember that I am merely human, and that it is totally ok to not like your kids sometimes.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  They can be total dickheads sometimes.  

Example 1

Your child is two months old.  It’s 7:00 p.m.  You haven’t had a full night’s sleep in approximately 40 days, but who’s counting?  Your baby has been bathed, diapered and fed.   You think to yourself, “This is the night.”  You can feel it.  Your baby is going to sleep through the night.  If you and Hubby can stay awake long enough, you might even get some. 

You kiss your baby’s beautiful little nose, turn out the light, and close the door.  Fifteen minutes later your baby is screaming so loud that your first instinct is to call 9-1-1, because obviously a Dingo is stealing your baby.  Your baby is up for the for the next 8 hours.  Crying.  For no reason.  You love your baby, but you don’t like him very much right now.

Example 2

Your child is 2 1/2 years-old.  You have to go to the grocery store.  Because you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in approximately 910 days, you’re not thinking clearly.  You decide to take your toddler with you. 

You’re flying through the store Supermarket Sweep style because your baby’s nap time is in about 5 minutes.  If he doesn’ t get his nap he turns into a little troll who will make you want to kill yourself.  You have about $800 worth of groceries in your cart, but you know you won’t be able to put a decent meal together with any of it because you didn’t have time to check your list.  You need to get the hell out of dodge. 

You’re in line to check out when your baby notices a red plastic squirt gun.  He wants it.  He tells you he wants it.  You say no.  His baby neck veins pop out.  He’s screaming.  You’re sure he’s going to hyperventilate.  He’s in full meltdown mode.  You leave your cart full of groceries at the checkout, and drag a screaming,  kicking child through the crowded parking lot.  You have cereal and hot dogs for dinner.  Love does not equal like.

Example 3

You’re exhausted from a long day at work.  Dinner has been served, dishes are done, and there is a box-o-wine in the fridge with your name on it.  Just as you sit down to enjoy a glass before heading to bed your 7 year-old informs you that her history project is due….tomorrow.  As you look over her assignment you realize your options are to either create an entire Indian village out of toothpicks, twine, and glitter or recreate the Battle of Gettysburg using leggos, firecrackers, food coloring, and toilet paper rolls. 

You’re up the entire night glueing glittler-covered tampons to toothpicks You’re a little drunk, but you’re pretty sure you don’t like your kid so much right now.

Example 4

It’s Monday.  It’s Summer vacation.  Before you go to work you leave a note for your 15 year-old kindly asking him to pick up the dirty underwear and socks that are hanging from the ceiling fan in his room, take the chicken out of the freezer, and let the dogs out once in a while.

You walk in the door at 5:15 P.M., to the shower running, the freezer door wide open, your puppy chewing on dirty boxers, every dish in the house dirtied and on your coffee table, dirty socks sitting on the entertainment center, ESPN blaring on the T.V., a freshly laid dog turd sitting in the middle of the livingroom, and a note that reads, “Mom, I need $20.00 and I’m suppose to sell 150 raffle tickets for football by Wednesday.”

So, yeah.  I don’t like my kid sometimes.

What? Wednesday- I Couldn’t Have Said it Better Myself. Seriously.

This. Is. Perfect. 

If you can honestly tell me that you have never thought this very thought at one time or another when caring for your own child, niece, nephew or any kid you have ever tried to put to bed then you are a perfect person, and I don’t think we can be friends.

A Mother’s Unconditional and Fabulous Love

I was able to spend a lot of time with Son this weekend which is the best gift Mother’s Day gift ever.  That, and a spa day….and some books….and maybe some perfume, but time with Son was good, too. 

I often tell Son how much I love him.  He’s used to it and always indulges me with an “I love you, too”.  This weekend, however, he questioned my love:

Me:  I love you.

Son:  I know.  I love you too.

Me:  I really love you.

Son:    Yep.  Love you, too.

Me:  You’re my favorite thing in the whole world.

Son: I know.  You tell me that all the time.

…

Me:  I would love you no matter what.

Son:  Sorry.  I’m not gay.  You’re going to have to find your gay somewhere else.

Me:  (sigh) I know.  That’s ok.

Where are you, Mr. Fabulous?

Son:  You’re weird. 

…

Son:  Would you love me if I didn’t love you back?

Me:  Yes.  It would break my heart, but I would definitely still love you.

Son:  Would you love me if  I married a girl you couldn’t stand?

Me:  I would mastermind a way to break you up, but I would definitely still love you.

Son:  What if….I joined a cult?

Me: For sure!  I would have to infiltrate the cult, and act so incredibly werid that they would kick us both out. 

Son:  What if I was a serial killer?

Me:  That’s dark.  Again, you would break me heart, but yes.  I would still love you.

Son:  I know.  What if I worked for ________________’s Presidential campaign?

(Uncomfortable, awkward silence.)

Me:  I would love you a little less.  But, I love you sooooo much, that you wouldn’t even be able to tell.

Son:  I love you.

What? Wednesday- Yes Sir, That’s My Baby!

A couple of things to look for:

• 0:38- Please resist the urge to fist bump that moose knuckle.  You’ll hurt your hand.
• 1:50- You’re welcome.

Thanks, Buzz Feed?

What? Wednesday- Put Down Your Guns, Slap Your Children

This is how all conflicts, no matter how big or small, should be handled from now on. 

Boss up in your face?  Slap duel.

Need a way to end the war in Afghanistan?  Slap war.

Evil witch steal your parking spot?  Slap it out. (More on this tomorrow)

I need to find this little boy and train from him.  He will be my Mr. Miyagi, my Kung Fu slap master.  He will break my spirit by forcing me to practice my slap skills on a pin cushion until my hands are raw and bleeding.  He will laugh at my pain as he bitch slaps me over and over again with the back of his hand.   

After months of grueling training, and only after I have gained his respect, will he allow me to study him, learn from him, and ultimately master his ancient slap fight secrets. 

Yes, Sensei!  That’s exactly what I’ll do.

Pick Up the Needle, Press Pause, or Turn the Radio Off

 There is a huge double standard in Hispanic culture.  While my male cousins were allowed, and even encouraged, to go out and sow their wild oats, we girls were told horror stories of a young girl who got pregnant by writing a boy’s name on her notebook.  Wuelita would often warn us girls of the dangers of sex:

 Jo nooo, jo can half a baby if joo look at a pee pee.  Neber look at a pee pee.  If joo see juan, joo run away.

My dad (Papi) had three girls- his penance for his wild oats sowing days.  Papi’s biggest fear was that some day some hormone charged, sex on the brain, gets a boner when the wind blows, Latin Lothario was going to swoop in and devirginize one of his daughters. 

Papi, you have nothing to worry about with this guy. I promise.

When I was a Freshman in high school, after one particularly emotional cryfest of an argument with Papi about why he wasn’t allowing me to go to prom with a Senior, Papi decided it was time for us girls to understand where he was coming from.  Apparently, the sex talks given by Mami and Wuelita weren’t stern enough.  So, he sat my sisters and I down at the kitchen table for his own “talk”.

My sisters and I could tell what was coming, and we immediately started giggling.  This was going to be very painful…for Papi.  We were excited.

We pinched each other under the table to stifle our laughs as Papi paced back and forth, back and forth.  He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and slammed it.  More pacing.  More giggles.  One more beer.  He was ready:

Girls, it doesn’t matter what boys say.  They just want one thing.  They want to get in your pants.

*Pinch, pinch, pinch*

A boy will tell you you’re beautiful, but what he’s really thinking is that he wants to see you naked.  If he tells you he loves you, it means he’s getting impatient.

*Hysterical giggle fit lasts long enough for Papi have another beer.*

LISTEN! 

Boys are always thinking about sex.  That’s all they want and they’ll say and do anything to get it.  They are liars and cheaters.

By my count, Papi was well on his way to finishing a six-pack.  His eyes were glassy, and he was talking more freely.

Basically, girls, what it comes down to is that I want you to be smarter than those boys.  I don’t want any boys to think of you as just……..p!$$y holes.

He said p!$$y holes.

What followed was a laughing fit so loud, so consuming, so out of control that the only thing I heard in the several minutes that followed was the sound of the screen door slamming shut.  It took us half an hour to realize Papi had left the room.  We had stomach cramps from laughing so hard.  Our faces hurt from the laughter.  Our poor dad.  He didn’t stand a chance. 

When I recounted this tale to my husband years later his only response was a knowing, “Your dad spoke the truth.” 

Huh.

Papi- 1/Devirginizing Sex-Crazed P-hole Lovers- 3 (Sorry, Dad)

What? Wednesday- Nothing To See Here

These two are adorable! Do you think they’re twins?

You know what, puppy?  You can keep the pillow.  I insist.

Wish I Would Have Known

From Yahohomimi on Flickr

A Michigan Applebee’s has recently come under fire for serving a toddler  “apple juice spiked with an alcoholic margarita mix magical goodness“.  I wouldn’t have thought to mix the two, but now I can’t wait to try it. 

Fortunately, the drunken baby is ok, but, apparently, this isn’t the first time a mix up like this has happened at an Applebee’s.  Before the A-Rita (see what I did there?)  incident an Applebee’s employee served a  5 year-old a Long Island Iced Tea.  A Long Island Iced Tea.  That’s the drink equivalent to a Vicodin!

The mother of the toddler said she knew her son was drunk because:

“I mean within minutes his eyes were glazed, he started behaving so peculiar, laughing uncontrollably, licking the bread basket that was on the table…”

Ok.  Personally, what that mom described sounds exactly like every toddler I’ve ever met.  Kudos to her for coming to the conclusion that Jr. was wasted.  I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference since I think toddlers act like alcoholics most of the time anyway:

1. They can hardly walk.
2. You can’t understand 90% of what they’re saying.
3. They pee their pants.
4. They can be hilariously silly (e.g. licking the bread basket).
5. They can have really shitty attitudes, and usually need to sleep it off. 
6. They drool all over themselves.
7. They shove food in their faces and only get 1/3 of it into their mouths.
8. When they get pissed off, they can clear a room by making everyone feel uncomfortable and sorry for their parents.
9. They’re co-dependant.
10. They can be emotionally abusive.

I can’t stop thinking of this A-Rita!  After I drink my lunch, I’m going to start the rumor on Son’s Facebook page that Applebee’s serves to everyone so long as they use the code word “Juice”.  Then, I’m going to take him and a bunch of his friends there for dinner tonight.

It Just Tastes So Good Once It Hits My Lips

I have a love/hate relationship with smoking.   Basically, I love to smoke.  And, I hate myself for it. 

I have the matching t-shirt and tote.

Please don’t judge.  I know it’s bad for my health.  I’m not debating that.  I’m just being honest. 

My nasty habit began long, long ago on a cold and rainy spring day in my friend’s garage.  She had been doing the laundry and found a soft pack of Marlboro Reds rolled up in her brother’s faded, hole-infested Metallica t-shirt.  There was one left.   The whole thing went down like a cheesy After School Special.  We were bored.  We dared each other that the other wouldn’t take a drag.  Five minutes later we’re in the garage coughing up a lung and getting sick to our stomachs.

 My trigger is the smell of a freshly lit cigarette.  The Wisconsin smoking ban has helped curbed this trigger because all bars, restaurants, and campuses are now smoke-free which means I don’t have to smell it.  It also means that  I can smell a cigarette a mile away.   

The other day at school, I walked up on someone sneaking a smoke near a backdoor.  I stood there, frozen, staring at this kid as he took two long, crackling drags off his cigarette.  “What?”,  he said in his cocky 18-year-old voice.  “Nothing”, I silently mouthed.  I continued to stand there and watch him has he texted and smoked, texted and smoked, texted and smoked.  I focused on the sizzling red cherry of that cigarette until all that was left was a burnt little nub.  The entire time I was thinking, “I  love/hate you kid with the snotty attitude who won’t be told what to do, and sneaks out to have a smoke behind the garbage can on a non-smoking campus even at the threat of the rent a cop finding you and giving you a stern talking to”.  I love/hate you. 

I have given up my dirty little carcinogenic habit, for the most part (spoken like a true addict). But, I can do better.  I have to do better.  It’s just that every once in a while the urge to light one up is so intense that I feel like a full-blown junkie.  I get cold sweats, nervous twitches, and I start thinking of what I can trade for a cigarette. 

Excuse me, Sir.  Would you be willing to trade one of your cigs for…..my car?  No?  Oh, ok.  I understand.  Thanks anyway. 

Then, I break a bottle over the bar and shank him with it.

Why did you make me do that?!  I didn’t want to hurt you, man.  I just wanted a smoke.

 Just kidding.  It’s not that bad.  I mean, I don’t actually say that stuff out loud.  I just imagine it. 

Flash forward to this weekend.  It was nice out.  Hubby and I visited some friends, had some wine, and grilled some food.  I caved and a had smoke.  I loved/hated every second of it.

The next day, Son and I are driving in the car together.  He tells me about this cute girl he knows (I suspect he likes her even though he would never tell me). 

Me:    Do you think she’s cute?

Son:  I don’t want to talk about this.

Me.  I’m just asking if you think she’s cute.  It’s a yes or no question.

Son:  I used to think she was cute.

Me.  Used to?

Son:  Yeah.  But, I saw her smoking at a party and it was just……gross.  She smelled like cigarettes all night and I couldn’t talk to her.  I’m glad you quit.  I hated when you smoked.

*Shanked in the heart, punched in the gut guilt*

Readers, forget the E-cigs, the Nicorette, the patches, and the hypnosis.  For the unbelievably low price of $19.99 I will get my Son to come to your house and make you feel like a d-bag.  You’ll never want to smoke again.  

P.S.  Call within the next ten minutes and get a “I’m a d-bag” travel mug . Free!

Excuse Me, I Have to Poop

If you haven’t picked up on it yet, I’m generally in a constant state of annoyance.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m a happy person, but I’m also easily annoyed by almost anything.  Here’s a list of a few things that take me from pleasant to pissy in less than 5 seconds:

1. Rain (or any form of humidity) after I’ve sat in a salon for 2 hours getting a blowout.
2. Getting up early to go to the gym.
3. Pregnant pauses.
4. Forward emails.
5. Many, many, many more things.
6. *NEW The sentence finisher.

I recently met someone who, although I’m sure is a nice person, I will never know for sure because I will never speak to her again.  She’s the Sentence Finisher.  Let me explain.

We were having a discussion about our teenagers.  Things started off ok.  Then, we started talking about curfews.  I said:

Nothing good can happen after midnight. 

As I said the last two words of the sentence, “after midnight”, I noticed that Sentence Finisher said them along with me, three octaves higher.  She sang them more than she said them.  “Aaaaafter Midniiiiight.”

Ok, that was weird.  Whatever.  We continued our conversation.  I said:

I think the driving age should be bumped up to 18.  I had no business driving when I was 16.

As I said “when I was 16” Sentence Finisher chimed in (literally), “When I was sixteeeeeeeeen”.  This time she opera-sang “16” so loudly and so high that I had to look around and silently assure everyone in the room that I didn’t have Sentence Finisher in a headlock.

This continued for the next five minutes until I came up with the excuse that the meal we had just shared wasn’t agreeing with me, and excused myself to use the restroom.  In order to get away from her I resorted to the “I have to poop” excuse.   Basically, I would rather this woman picture me pooping than think of me as someone she can talk to. 

I’m an a-hole.

P.S.  I was tempted to say “I’m a tool!” just so I could hear her sing “I’m a toooooooool!”