Drunk People Aren't Known For Having Great Ideas.

You guys. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It's been a while. You must just be so...fond...of me by now.

Okay. Listen to this story from 2005.

I lived on the second floor of these old and crappy apartments that were within walking distance to both the downtown area and the football stadium when I was in college. Rent was expensive...but not as expensive as a DUI, which is why these crappy apartments were always full. As you can imagine, that complex was also full of drunk idiots.

One night, my four male neighbors from upstairs got really drunk while they packed their stuff up to move out of their apartment. Well, "drunk" doesn't really do justice in describing their altered mental state, but, whatever. Keep reading.

So, one guy had the courtesy to come to my door and ask that I move my car before they threw their sofa over the third floor balcony. I obliged, and then my friend and I watched from the sliding glass door as a full-sized sofa teetered on the rail of the third floor balcony and then crashed to the ground.

Drunk. Idiots.

Well, the story doesn't end there because simply sending the couch over the edge wasn't enough for them. I walked out onto the balcony with my friend as two or three drunk guys started dragging the sofa into the middle of the parking lot.

Me: "Hey. Uh...what are you guys doing?"
One guy: "We're KILLING the couch!"
Other guy: "HAHHAHAAAA!"
Some other guy to the other other guy: "Tell him we're ready!"
One guy: "We're READY!!! Get your keys!"
Me: (crickets, then a thunderous noise of about ten people running down the cement stairs.)

They dragged the couch to the middle of the parking lot (you know, where the cars drive, not where people sit on couches and watch movies) and then another guy gets in his car and backs it out of the parking space and drives off. The idiots are all standing around and I start slowly realizing that they're planning on trying to run over the couch with the car. I mean, that's a brilliant idea, right?

I look further over the edge and see about fifteen guys watching and waiting to see how cool it's going to be to run over a couch with a car. Over to the right, I see the headlights of the old 1986 Honda Accord drawing nearer and finally coming to a stop. I hear the idiots urging him to "GO! GO! GO!" and like something out of a movie, he revs his engine a few times. I look over at my friend and we silently agree that we are about to witness something that could not possibly end well.

In slow motion, the engine revs one last time right as the drunkest idiot decides he wants to sit down for a second. You know...he obviously needs to rest. He was really too drunk so stand to even a minute longer. Actually, he can't stand up for even a second longer, so he decides to RUN and flop onto the sofa just as drunk driver guy puts the petal to the medal. I start waving my arms. "NO! STOP! OH MY GOD!!! STOP!!!" And then I see crash and the really tired drunk guy literally goes flying about 30 feet through the air before skidding across the asphalt on his face.

The cops showed up. People got arrested. Guys still have scars.

Drunk. Idiots.

I thought you needed to know this story.

Smarty Needs Some Training

Okay, so you guys remember Smarty, right? She's the sassypants girl who lives across the street and Doof's big sister-ish kind of friend. Good. So, Smarty's momma works her butt of providing for her family and I like Smarty because she provides great blog material is just as crazy as the rest of us. Anyway, I got the opportunity to pet-sit at a friend's house and this friend has a pool. A real pool. A really clean pool. (No way am I going to a public pool. All that pee. Teenagers doin' it in there. Babies without those tight plastic diapers. Sweat. Snot. Spit. Okay, I have to stop.) This pet-sitting gig was divine timing because it was hotter than a hundred hells this weekend and even the balmy water was better than no balmy water. So, I took Doof and Smarty and Stinks with me over to the house to swim and whatnot. Again, perfect because said house also has a baby bed for Stinks to nap in. Not sure why that's important to this story...but okay...Smarty needs some diversity training.

Exhibit A:
For some reason Doof has it in his mind that you cannot see him once he goes "under the dark water". Never mind that the pool is clean and the water is clear and the bottom of the pool is a pale blue or that Doof is BLACK. Smarty goes along with it for a few minutes. She likes to join him in his fantasy world from time to time. She is a few years older than Doof and I like to think she finds it freeing to go back in time a few years and play pretend. But, you know....there's only so much she's willing to put up with. So, there's Smarty on the diving board. She's looking toward the shallow end where Doof is sinking under the water and jumping back out saying over and over again, "Smarty! Can you see me? Smarty! Can you see me under the dark water? Smarty! Smarty! Can you? Can you?" Finally, she has had enough. "YES! I CAN SEE YOU, CHOCOLATE BROWN!!!! GAWD!"

Exhibit B:
Same day. Same pool.
Smarty: Hey, Ms. ______(oh my gosh. what am I going to call myself on this blog?)_____, did you say that your friends are going to adopt a brother and a sister?
Me: Yes.
Smarty: What color are they?
Me: Uuuuummm...you mean their skin color? They're bi-racial.
Smarty: What's that mean?
Me: Their mom is white and their dad is black.
Smarty: Oh yeah. I've seen those kinds of kids. They have weird, fuzzy hair.

Exhibit C:
Same day, again. Same pool.
Me (more to myself than anything): Man, Stink's ears are still so floppy. I wonder how long until the cartilage hardens.
Smarty: Well, at least his nose isn't connected to his mouth.

Smarty, really? So, I jokingly mention this to Smarty's mom and her response?
"She said CHOCOLATE brown. That's a compliment. She loves chocolate."

Wonder where she gets it.

There's Something You Should Know About Me.

I have been told many times over the years that I like bad music. Actually, the first time I ever heard this, I was in the sixth grade. There was a kid who called me "Murphy Brown" because I guess Murphy Brown likes bad music, too? Some comments were made in high school that it was strange that I knew all the lyrics to strange songs. When I would drive and flip through stations, I usually landed on some old lady station. And Travis thought it was funny when I cried the first time I heard Tesla's Love Song. If you ever see me sitting in traffic singing into my cell phone, I'm probably not singing anything current. 

I always think it is fascinating that personalities are so enduring. My dad once gave me a recording of myself at age 3 talking talking about a hippopotamus and singing Up On The Housetop and some other such nonsense. It was really odd to hear my three-year-old self saying "Noooo, I'm gonna spank YOU!" with the exact same tone and inflection as I use today. I guess what I am getting at is that I was probably enjoying bad music back then, too. Some things probably don't change much.

In my childhood, us kids had absolutely no radio rights in the car. We listened to what my mom and step-dad listened to and that was all there was to it. While my mom was single, we always listened to (i guess you would call it) light rock. Lots of Christopher Cross, Debbie Gibson, Bryan Adams, Peter Cetera...all really nice, if you ask me. Air Supply was also a favorite. (I am such a dweeb. I know, but  am embracing it.) I actually got to see Air Supply in concert when I was in undergrad. I was embarrassingly excited to go and eagerly asked my really awesome roommate (who liked some kinds of bad music), but Air Supply was just too bad for his taste. I had just met my husband and we were at that point in dating where he should be trying to please me and make me happy, so I just knew he would go with me. Nope. No one...not even one person I knew...would go with me to this concert. I won't lie. I was disappointed but I was not going to miss the concert even if I had to go by myself. 

I did some soul-searching and started wondering if my taste in music was really that bad. How could I be so off-base in my music selection that not a single person I know would take me up on a FREE ticket to see Air Supply? I mean...we all know the songs. So now I COMEEEEEE to YOUUUUUUU with OOOPPPPPPPEN AARRMMMMMSSSSS. Come on. You ALL know that one. Even Mariah Carey covered it because it's GOOD. Sigh. Whatever.

Anyway, I finally found someone to go to the concert with me. I packed a bottle of wine, a blanket, some fancy cheese and crackers and me and my mom had a great time and I even got to kiss Graham Russell on the cheek. Now all you haters are sad you missed it, aren't cha? Humph.

Why Didn't I Think Of This Sooner?

Every. Single. Morning. I have to fight with Doof to (a) get up (b) get dressed (c) eat (d) eat faster (e) OH MY GOD HURRY UP AND BRUSH YOUR TEETH BEFORE YOU ARE TARDY AND I LOSE MY MIND!!!!! I have tried everything I could imagine to get him just to, please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD...MOVE YOUR ASS!!!  I mean, what is it with this kid? I have found myself asking if this is just a personality trait I will have to accommodate. Will Doof ALWAYS be leisurely? Will he NEVER care about hurrying the hell up for anything? I have even asked myself if it's a black thing. Would black mothers be as crazed as I am about getting things done on time, being prompt? Is he on "black people time" and I just don't get it?

I'm not kidding you when I say that I have, on more than one occasion and by 7:00am, grabbed him by the shoulders and shaken him until I heard his teeth rattle. It takes that much escalation and effort just to get his attention and to let him know that I am serious about whatever it is I am saying to him or asking of him. Am I proud of doing this? No. Am I human? Yes. Am I a perfect parent? Yes. Really? Yes. Perfect. I'll prove it in a few paragraphs.

It is so irritating to have to tell him over and over to do things. It is frustrating to me that he waits until he is told to do the things he knows he has to do. We call this "Learned Helplessness". And it is all my fault. He acts like he's helpless and I continue to treat him like he's helpless.

Me: Hey, Doof, put your clothes on.
Doof: Ok.
(fifteen whole minutes later...I mean, really, the kid has to put on three items that have been predetermined that he would wear. They're already laying there waiting to be worn. Three items. That's it. Five counting socks and shoes.)
Me: Doof, really? Where are your shoes?
Doof: In my room. You didn't tell me to put them on.
Me: (collapse to the floor and begin banging head)
Doof: Whhaaaattt?
Me: (now sobbing): How many days have you gone to school without shoes on? Do I have to tell you every single time what every single step is?
Doof: (standing there)
Me: OH MY GOD! GO GET YOUR SHOES ON! (then realizing I forgot to mention socks...) AND IF YOU COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM WITHOUT SOCKS ON BOTH OF YOUR FEET I AM GOING TO....(thinking, thinking, thinking)...GIVE ALL YOUR TOYS TO THE FOSTER KIDS AT WORK!!!

Mornings are bad. After school is terrible.

Doof RARELY has time to play after school because gets home at 3:00pm and he spends SO MUCH TIME on each task that by the time he is done bitching and finally doing what he needs to do,  we have dinner around 6:30pm (then he sits at the table for an hour eating so incredibly slowly) that after dinner, he goes straight to getting ready for bed.  Still, THREE AND A HALF HOURS is enough time to have a snack, do homework, pick one chore, and then play before dinner. It's ridiculous (right?) that he can't do these things in that much time. And then guess what happens? I get to listen to him moan and whine that he didn't get to play outside AFTER I have listened to him moan and whine about not getting the snack he wants, not wanting to do his homework, not understanding his homework, not being to pronounce the word "would"/"marble"/WHATEVER, and then complaining that he doesn't know how to "fold his blanket"/"find the trash bags"/WHATEVER. It is an understatement to say that I am sick of it. Sick to death.

I consider myself to be somewhat intelligent. I have a degree in psychology and a graduate degree, too. So why is it that I am so dumb when it comes to my own kids? I had this idea (okay, it wasn't really technically my idea, per se) that I would make these lists on small dry-erase boards for Doof. I would make a list of the tasks he needed to complete for each section, if you will, of the day. Each day he would choose the list and go through the tasks he needs to complete and check them off one by one.

Honestly, I put off doing this little kid-organizing task because I didn't want to have to go through all of his lists with him and double-check his work. I mean, that's like adding another baby to the mix...following him around, looking over his shoulder all the time, double-checking his work and most of all, listening to the whining!!! Plus I'm...kinda lazy and all...so, yeah, that's why this took so long. But, do you want to know what jump started this process? Frigging Target had the dry-erase boards for a dollar. Naturally, I bought ten because I have a lot of lists in my head (Poor Doof). Then I bought these Velcro strip thingies that would adhere to the wall, but would also make it possible for Doof to easily remove the board and carry it with him if he needed to do so and then put it right back on the wall.

We started yesterday afternoon after he got home from school. He was super excited to have a list and a dry-erase board! I couldn't believe it myself! He eagerly checked the items off the "After School" list and then...dun dun dun...HE HAD TIME TO PLAY OUTSIDE. Actually, a lot of time. It wasn't all great. The Before Bed segment was a cluster fuck challenging, but this morning....oh, PRAISE GOD, this morning was A DREAM COME TRUE! Doof got out of bed, dutifully went through his steps, checking them off proudly and running into the kitchen to make sure I knew when he had completed one, needed only a little bit of supervision, and got ready for school (including eating breakfast and brushing teeth and putting on socks and shoes) in TWENTY minutes. Twenty. We even made it in enough time for Doof to catch the bus! THE BUS!!!!!  I praised the heck out of him and made a HUGE deal about how GREAT he is and how I AM SO IMPRESSED and OH MY GOSH!! YOU JUST EARNED YOUR TOYS BACK!!! And he was just glowing. Smug. Proud of himself.

AND while we were waiting for the bus, I nicely asked Doof to put on his sweatshirt. A simple task and a kindly phrased direct order (not a choice).  Ugh. I could see it coming...the negotiating, the whining, this perfect morning was going to end in the typical fashion; Doof arguing with me over something so dumb. But...Doof surprised me again. He started to shake his head no, then stopped, then started to give some excuse, then stopped, finally took a big breath...and then a miracle happened.

He said, "Okay, mom. Yes ma'am."

See? Perfect Parent.

Jealous

Lately Doof has been asking me questions about his birth mom. I knew these days would come. In my mind, I knew exactly how I would answer him.

I guess I will preface this story by saying that my parents divorced when I was very young and they had nasty custody battles for years and years and years and years...you get the point. My mom was not very kind in speaking about my dad and many times I thought I was not loved by him nor worthy of love from others. It's so strange (and permanent) what a five or six year old mind can do to a person.

Anyway, I knew these days would come and I knew exactly how I would answer his questions. I would be different from my mother in handling things with Doof.  I would use my experience to be a "better" mother by answering him in a very loving way and making sure he knew that he was loved by her, even if only in the fucked up way she could muster. Well, I wouldn't say it like that, but I would make it sound all butterflies and bunnies and he would be satisfied.

These questions have been going on for a couple of weeks now and I was doing a great job of fielding his questions while considering truth and his feelings at the same time. I was saying things like, "She couldn't take care of you because she couldn't really take care of herself" and "I know she loves you because all  mothers love their babies". I was proud of myself for being so kind and thankful for my education in social work and therapy. But I am beginning to lose it. In the same amount of time this has been going on, I have found myself becoming uneasy and increasingly anxious about why he is asking these things. I have almost on numerous occasions told him things that he never needs to know. It won't hurt him to go through life thinking she actually loved him. It will only help him to think that he was not to blame, that he was always worthy of love. If he knew the things she didn't do for him, he may think he didn't deserve to be cared for. I have been up at night thinking about this stuff for weeks and even though I know what is appropriate and inappropriate to say to a wee boy...I am getting mad/sad/territorial.

And for some reason today I can finally name this feeling.

I am jealous.

I am not saying this is a mature feeling or that I have thought this out or even that I really understand it. But, ya know, I just don't want to have to share him. I am the one who was rocking him in the hospital those endless days. I am the one who was spending my nights laying awake worrying about him and his adjustment to our family. I am the one who signs him up for soccer and takes him to the practices and games. I am the one who does his laundry, packs his snacks, shows up for school functions, takes him to the zoo, the museum, the doctor, the emergency room. I wipe his tears. I laugh at his jokes and general craziness. I enjoy him. He consumes my every free thought, I LOVE HIM. He's MINE! And I should not have to share his heart.

But ya know what else is true? Because he is mine, I love him too much to break his heart and tell him all the things that she never did for him. All those little ways that a mother cares for her baby; the diapers, the doctors, the cooing, the holding, the playing...all those things she never did...

I need to come to a place where I am not so reluctant to share his heart with her. I'd rather share it and make it so full of love and positive images of himself and his life that it bursts rather than breaks. A broken heart can follow you around for a long time. A heart bursting with joy can carry you. But knowing these things and biting my tongue are two different things. And today I am really struggling with biting my tongue, which turns out to be a recurring theme in my life.

What's in a Name?

When I was pregnant with Stinks, my husband basically refused to say that he agreed with a name until the very last minute. It was annoying for many reasons. First, I think he just wanted to be in control of something (and we all know who's actually in control over her, right?). Secondly, starting at week seven, I barfed multiple every single day until the day I delivered, and feeling nauseated while someone else is pretending to be in control is just annoying. Third...it was terribly annoying.

Anyway, left with no other option, I named the baby Nauseous Bile and called him "NB" for short. People were convinced that I would call him NB forever and started to insist that we find a name for this baby. Again, there was no convincing my husband to concede and tell me whether he agreed to the name I liked or not. About two weeks before I was induced, he finally agreed to a name, but there we were in the delivery room and right as they lifted Stinks up so I could see him, my first thought was, "So, you're NB, huh? Dude. You are so...purple." I mean, really, he was. The thought crossed my mind and I said to myself, "Aw, man. We didn't have a cute baby." Never in my entire life had I seen such purple, gooey, and cone-headed newborn. It was unreal and a little scary.

I hadn't slept a wink the night before Stinks was born (because I was awake and vomiting...okay, sushi the night before you deliver a baby was probably not the best idea I have ever had, but I still maintain that it was Stinks's idea) and the epidural made me all itchy, so they gave me Benadryl.  I was asleep between pushes. Travis had this confused look on his face. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I could not imagine calling this baby by his name.

I promised I wouldn't call Stinks "NB" anymore after he had a name, and I only call him NB every now and then. But, it has become  obvious that I  have an issue with nicknaming things because I haven't call Stinks his real name in months now. He is called Stinks, Boons, Boons Farms, Boozie, Beebee, and Hunsie most of the time. I only worried about this when I was reading a pamphlet the pediatrician gave me which stated that by nine months, a baby should respond to their name when it is called. I guess we'll see what happens when they try to check this milestone at our next appointment.

Good Ideas GONE WILD

So, I'm not mad or anything at the person who suggested that we have a garden this year. I think this person has good intentions (generally speaking) and has incredible vision and garden-hero-potential, too. This person suggested a small-ish garden with a nice variety of fruits and vegetables along with some flowers and herbs, you know, to, uh...make it prettier and more fragrant...no...to, um, attract "beneficial insects". What? 

The person who had this great idea is usually the kind of person who sits on the couch and imagines things that are pretty or clever or useful. This person may also simply get ideas from Pinterest and pin the night away but never actually do anything, per se, with said good ideas. Well, not this time. The person who suggested this thing actually created  the garden. That same person used an actual tiller (A MACHINE FOR CHRIST'S SAKE), planted actual seeds, AND remembered to water the seeds. Surprised, and a little bit scared,  at the rate at which these seeds became tiny leafy green things, this person did not succumb to fear. This person finished  the making of the garden, including building a fence (okay...wrapping plastic netting stuff around poles and using zip ties to secure it), planning where to put the leafy, green things, and even installed a GATE...AND decorated the garden with a metal sunflower thingy and a pinwheel. 

This person was so committed to the idea of a garden that cinder blocks soon became homes for herbs, strawberries, and various pretty flowers, and the leftover wine corks became garden markers. I have to say, it is pretty amazing. The person who orchestrated this entire thing and sowed seeds and planted tiny plants that grew from seeds is pretty. Haha! I should have said pretty amazing, but she's pretty, too, so I needed to add that, you know. That Alyssa has really outdone herself this time, if I do say so myself.