If you have ever gone through a remodel, and lived to tell the tale, I bow to you. For you are my hero!
It’s the first day of school. Things are crazy, because hey… we just had the summer off, and now I am running around the house trying to get the first three boys off to school.
Meanwhile, boy 8 is running around in his underwear and cape. He informs me, (despite the plethora of bribes that leave my lips) that he is dressed for the day.That there is no reason… on any planet… in the foreseeable future…why he should put on pants.
Superheros don’t need pants.
Underwear, capes, and (one) hulk-hand is all the craze in the toddler world…not forgetting to also sport the robin mask.
Apparently, they’re cool like that, and because I am not cool, I didn’t receive that new memo.
I’m hanging on the edge by this point. Trying to figure out which battles I can handle at 5:45am.
I should take a minute to explain something before we go any further.
I am totally… unequivocally… NOT… by any means…. a morning person.
I despise mornings.
I believe the only people who enjoy waking up in the morning, are either the devil… or crazy people…and probably the people who work for the IRS… those guys have to enjoy waking early.
I will however, –against my better judgment– get up because I have too… but in reality, I am my best well after 10am-ish.
This means I am on edge as soon as the alarm goes off. I am one eye open, as I stumble like a zombie to the kitchen to grab myself the holy grail of my mornings –the infamous monster energy drink– The first draw on that baby is like a brilliant sunset in my mouth. It is, to say the least… quite orgasmic.
Its pathetic how this has become the highlight of my days. I’m like a crazy crack head banging on their dealers door when I run out. It’s pretty disturbing. Maybe at some point I should seek some type of twelve step program for it, but I suppose that should be a discussion for another day, as I have seemed to become off track here.
Anyhoo, back to the morning…
While in the mad rush to get the boys ready, 2 informs me that he can’t take a shower because there is no hot water. anywhere… none in the bathroom…none in the kitchen…
This means… at some point, I will have teenage meltdowns. Which is obviously one of my many favorite things in the world. I mean, who doesn’t think a teenage meltdown on the first day back to school isn’t rad?
Thats when I notice the waterfall going on in the backyard.
The water heater is a sputtering mess.
Water spraying out everywhere, which means I am sure the water ninjas are on their way to wreak havoc on my morning… because of course I live in California…in the desert… where theres a huge drought and water conservation thing is going on.
All because of this water heater, millions of people will be out of water by afternoon.
By the time I knew the water heater became my new arch nemesis, it was far too late to save the day…despite the cape 8 was wearing.
The flooding water made its way into the kitchen cabinets like a tsunami , not forgetting to lay its dirty little hands on the pantry, as well as boy 2 and 3’s bedroom.
For the next 30 days, I get to live with no kitchen. How does one feed a family of 9 for 30 days (as long a everything goes right…which it never does) with no kitchen?
And for 30 days I will have 2 boys sleeping on the couch, because their room is part of the war zone.
I am not really sure how I feel about this. I suppose on the bright side, it ill be a learning experience. This is something that the “better moms” out there (or maybe a sitcom) would claim, will bring the family together in some spiritual way.
I however am having spontaneous panic attacks.
My OCD is laying claim to the fact there will be dust everywhere, that I wont be able to clean. While walls, counters, pantry and closets get ripped out and put back together all new…I will have no control on anything.
I…mother of 8… without control? I shudder in fear.
We will be down to one bathroom in the house since luckily it has its own water heater. This means again, my OCD is reminding me that there will be 8 men missing the toilet in my personal bathroom. The bathroom they have never been allowed to use.
That 8 men will be showering in my personal bathroom.
That despite all the planning, I have more crap to store from my kitchen than I know what to do with.
There isn’t enough wine in the world to get me through this unscathed. So, in the meantime, if you don’t hear from me… I have probably moved to tahiti and changed my name. (at least until everything is back to normal)
Before I start, I am going to warn you, I am going to piss a lot of you off. However, that never seems to stop me. I just thought I would give you a heads up, that way you can get comfortable. Put on the big pants and strap in for the ride.
A few years ago…before 8 was born, I use to work for animal control. You know the one…the big mean nasty people who no one likes.
Those awful puppy and kitten murderers.
It was a job that not only did I hate, I loved it. There were days when it was completely gratifying. Then there were the days I would go home, open a bottle of wine/vodka and swig it quickly. Just so I could be calm enough to face the family.
It would drain me.
Ruined me in a way.
Had me questioning everyone I met.
Had me sob into my pillow more nights than I would like to admit.
And the funny thing… I miss it terribly most days.
What I don’t miss… The stupid assholes.
I don’t miss 99% of the rescues.
All the cat boxes… When there’s a million cats… that shit sucks.
The people who thought they knew my job better than I did…yet they hadn’t learned how to shower, or even how to put shoes on their kids in the middle of winter.
I don’t miss the emaciated dogs that everyone decided to forget about.
I don’t miss the asshat who claims neutering his dog would take his spirit away… not the truck that would run him over a week later because he dug out to get the female down the street knocked up….because of course, she wasn’t fixed either.
So in my “I miss the animal craziness” I started finding myself scouring the Facebook rescue pages.
They don’t like me. In fact, a lot have deleted me. And because of the drama, you get to hear me bitch.
You see folks… the dirty little secret about rescues (not all so don’t jump my shit), most are about money. Lots are actual hoarders with the RIGHT to hoard because no one has figured out their evil little doings yet.
They hide behind little key words like:
reference letter from the Vet saying you would be ok to own…which is hilarious if you have never owned a pet.
Blood of your first-born son (okay maybe not that…but close to it)
I even recently had one ask if she could talk to friends a look at a bank statement. They said they wanted to see if my income reflected what I was saying. That way, they would know if I could afford the dog… give…me…a…fuckin….break.
A lot of these rescues will use your bleeding hearts to fund their cause. Yet will rarely adopt out their dogs. Don’t believe me? Try contacting one. The hoops you have to jump will make you ill. They do this purposely. They keep you donating. They bully you, make you feel unworthy and terrible.
They will pull an animal (for free) from a shelter (and altered already by animal control *a lot of times…not always*) then charge you hundreds if not more to adopt that animal. They say it’s so the animal isn’t used as bait in dog fighting…or for all the medical the pup/cat needed.
Though there have been disgusting people who use animals as bait… the likelihood of them adopting from a rescue or even the pound is less than 1%. Most will steal a dog. The rescues will bully someone into giving them a litter of puppies, by scaring them into thinking all these puppies will be used as bait dogs. It is a money gold mine for them.
And the no kill shelters? No kill rescues… Yeah… hate to break it to you…but that’s a myth. They do not euthanize, because thats how they keep you feeling good and, it also keeps your money coming in. But guess what? When they have an animal they can’t place… when they have that angry little dog that nips because he’s 12 and his owner passed…hes scared.. when they become overcrowded and need to make room for the new designer dog that will get lots of funding and foot traffic…
They take the rejects to the pound.
They take them to the people who now do my job, because that way their conscious is clean.
You will still love them.
You will still hate animal control.
Animal control isn’t the bad guy folks.
These are people who are there to do a job.
A job most of you could never do.
These are people who have to make the hard decision to not save them all because there’s no funding.
These folks have to deal with the publics abuse and hateful words…words that will play through their head all night as the try to sleep.
People who have families they go home to every night.
People that despite working long hours, will still go home and keep working, because they just can’t stop thinking about that mother and her pups that need a quick foster.
They are stressed, overworked, exhausted, and they know it will never get better if people don’t start being responsible, which is a joke when you think about the vets that over charge to spay/neuter…but we’ll save that for another day.
They are spit on, yelled at, bullied and ridiculed. Yet every day they go back.
They are the unnoticed heroes if you ask me. Doing it because they love it… cause I can guarantee it’s not for the low pay.
Until next time, Cheers!
Disclaimer: These are strictly my experiences through work as well as networking. These are my opinion, therefore, if you take issue, there is nothing I can do for you. Not all rescuers are wolf in sheep’s clothing…however, in my experience, I can count on one hand the rescues I know and trust, and would call if I ever need help.
*and all the rescues reading this…if I like you, you know it… the others…stay out of my inbox. I have banned enough of you.*
If you have more than one teenage boy, you have (probably) on at least one occasion, dealt as I have with the rooster posturing, and growling boys tend to emanate when they become angry with each other.
If you are quick enough, you may even be able to stop it before it leads to fists flying at one another.
Name calling is a given, when they are actually happy with each other, as well as when they are angry.
However, have you ever wondered what goes on when you are not around?
I have always been pretty proud of my boys when they are not amongst the husband and me. Everyone always claims they are polite, and always helpful. Never rude.
However, what happens when you are close by? Do they behave if they are in their own home- and there is someone unrelated in that home?
What I have learned… my boys are a brutal mafia family. At least that’s what a friend told me. After she explained herself through spouts of laughter and giggles.
Now…before we delve into that conversation, you first need to learn the rules. There is always a set of unwritten rules known by siblings.
There is the oldest: The one no one ever dares to fight for dominance, unless they are sure they will win. He enslaves the lower class to do his bidding at all times.
There is the second in command. When the oldest isn’t around, and someone needs to step into place, he’s the one they call upon. Don’t let the calm voice fool you however! He is always plotting his takeover of the oldest boy’s spot.
The sleeper: He’s the one most ignore because he tends to stand idly by; not overly opinionated. He likes to watch for mistakes before he intervenes.
Then comes the brains, because let’s face it… there’s always the one who tends to be the brains of the bunch… always hiding in the shadows, only giving hints to what should be done without being noticed so as not to take the blame when things go bad.
Then there are the minions, cute little minions who tattle on the older ones, however they also tend to follow everyone around in hopes of someday gaining a respectful seat.
As a parent you learn to stay one step ahead at all times so you are not overthrown and lost to all anarchy.
So back to my friend…
About a week ago she came over. We sat around gabbing then started watching a movie with the boys. They were being great that day, which should have been the first warning. They were just being too well-behaved.
They watched the movie in silence, which again should have been the second warning. They never watch a movie without being scolded a half a dozen times to be quiet.
After about an hour or so, I excused myself to the bathroom, and let’s just say, as a mother of 8 not only do I shower in record time, I also pee faster than a greased pig on a water slide.
In less than 2 minutes, here’s how that little scene played out.
Boy 4 (who was in the kitchen still not doing the dishes) ran into his bedroom with a fork. He slapped or stabbed (still out on which exactly happen due to the code of silence) boy 3. Boy 3 then chased boy 4 (boy 4 giggling with delight that he one upped boy 3) down the hallway into the living room in which we were watching the movie, and went to beat boy 4 until he saw my friend; he then ran back to his room to escape.
Boy 1 grabbed boy 4, holding his hands behind his head, and screamed at boy 3 to get back and deal out boy 4’s punishment. Boy 8 yelled out he was a ninja and proceeded to spin kick anyone in his way. Boy 3 popped boy 4 in the head, boy 2 grabbed boy 8 and body slammed him on boy 6 and 7.
For some reason boy 5 just stared and giggled.
They all stopped when they heard the bathroom door open, jumped back into their rightful spot without so much as breaking a sweat.
Well, she just sat there dumbfounded, cracking up at how quickly and efficiently the boys played the whole scene out. However, even after prodding her for an explanation, she still wouldn’t budge — which of course gained her many cookie points by the boys.
I hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
Once we left the house she proceeded to play the whole scenario out for me. She knows my boys pretty darn well, which is why we decided the whole idea of staying well-behaved in front of her went out the window.
She calls them a mafia; I believe its straight up Lord of the Flies up in here.
The lesson I have gained from this: Never turn your back on your kids, and if you have to use the restroom when there’s company, the boys have to go with you! I like to call it the five foot rule… Five feet, within hands reach at all times. Boy one could tell you some stories, since thats pretty much how he has spent his entire teen life.
The other day, my husband and I were driving around doing our “buy the locus food and pay bills” thing, and, because of my attitude that we will ignore for argument’s sake as I plead the fifth, we get into the conversation about how I am just a miserable person to be around sometimes. Of course, you know, because everyone else in the world is happy as a clam in butter sauce. It wasn’t news that he feels that way sometimes, and it wasn’t news that he was right, for the most part. The thought of rainbows and kittens flying out my ass left me years ago.
However, what he said, at that moment, cut me, which I know was not his intention. It still cut the same.
The husband is not one of “those guys”. He never sets out to hurt anyone, especially his wife. In fact he’s quite the opposite. He hates to fight; He would leap tall buildings in a single bound in a cape and tights just to stay out of a fight with me. I however, cannot take that high ground myself, not to mention you don’t want to see me in spandex. In reality, I can be a mean bitch and quite opinionated.
See, if he is in a bad mood, he sits and watches TV, ignoring the world around him. When I am in a bad mood, I turn into what I imagine seems like a raging drug addict on bath salts banging on her dealer’s door. Moreover, until I work myself out of that mood, I need to hide so I don’t say something I really don’t mean. And lately, I have been hiding a lot.
See, no one ever tells you that sometimes, parenting is fucked up.
Sometimes, marriage is fucked up.
And sometimes…it’s hard not to be fucked up yourself.
Before I had kids, I was a pretty happy person all of the time, or at least I like to think so. When my parents raised me and my sisters, I think I can count on one finger how many times I had heard my parents fight, and that was only because I got up to pee in the middle of the night. I still do not know how they had the self-control to keep it to themselves until we were asleep. However, despite how they did it, I think it did us a disservice. Once I was married, I felt like such a loser if the husband and I would fight, and boy did we fight.
We fought about everything, however it was mostly money or stupid things like him never being around because he was working his ass off. I was lonely, and scared our lives were always going to suck. It just shows the immaturity level I had at 18.
If I would get angry I would voice it, and loudly. I would snap so quick it would give you whiplash. Things were thrown, things would break, and then after the smoke and dust cleared one of us would apologize (usually me) and things would go back to our newlywed bliss.
It was seriously messed up.
It took years for us to calm down and understand each other, and to not take everything someone said and turn it into Armageddon. All seriousness was pretty much flying out the window, which was a good thing. I am still baffled about how we got through those first years, but we did, and I am grateful for it every day, even if it doesn’t always seem that way.
Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t always that blissful sky-opening-up-to-angels-singing kind of thing over here. There are no rainbows or unicorns, We still fight, and we fight loud, we just stopped breaking things when we finally realized we liked our stuff and did not want to spend the money on new stuff all the time. We also try not to say stuff that hurts the other person. (Although, it still happens from time to time)
I also genuinely like spending time with him and hanging out. He’s my best friend, and someone who can deal with my up and down neurotic attitude that still plagues me to this day. Sometimes I actually think that 18 yr old self is trying to weasel her way back into my life, and I can’t let that happen. That chick is twisted, and should probably be put on meds.
But that comment… That comment was shitty. Not because he said it, but because he was right.
I am a pretty miserable person to be around sometimes. In part, I am tired. I’m waiting for the rollercoaster to slow down and let me off for a few minutes.
The husband still works a lot and is not home all that often, and after 20 years, I am still not used to it. That’s a good thing right? From what some women say, they would rather the husbands be gone more. Yet, I want mine around. I stay at home and try to keep the boys in line, but some days, like today, the kids win and I end up in the room crying and pissed off that I have no one here to takeover because it is at this moment I am losing my mind again.
At this moment, I feel defeated.
Is it rational? No, not really. Nevertheless, I still have that selfish moment where I want to get in my car and go hide from the world with a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and a box of truffles, if only for an hour or two.
No one ever tells you that sometimes you wake up and think, “Hmm… I really do not want to deal with the world today….and I REALLY do not want to deal with the argumentative teen who is way too much like his mama.”
No one tells you that sometimes being a parent can be really difficult, or that no matter how hard you try, it won’t always turn out the way you thought it would. No one tells you sometimes you will be miserable, and not know why. No one tells you there isn’t a magic pill that will fix your life when you feel like it is out of control, despite how many pills are there to fix everyone else.
No one tells you that you will feel like a failure more times than you will feel like you did it right. No one tells you that sometimes, when you fall, you would rather just stay on the ground for the day then try to get up. That sometimes you will be so angry you will shake all the way into your room before you say something you cannot take back.
That sometimes you will scream so loud you will lose your voice, yet no one will hear you.
You will feel bat shit crazy.
You will think everyone around you is bat shit crazy.
You will wonder if you can do anything right.
However, even after you start to recognize the warning signs that all of the above apply to you, they also do not tell you that it is okay that you feel this way sometimes.
That everything will pass, and you will look back and wonder why you made such a big deal about it. (I do this on a daily basis)
That sometimes you need to pop the balloons and shave the fluffy kittens to make a coat.
That as long as you have someone who is willing and understanding enough to wear the tights for you, you can get through anything, so just hang on.
Okay, so all of Sippy Cups and Booze’ archived posts have been deleted. I am hoping that somewhere in the interweb world, someone in another dimension, is able to find my two years of work, pictures, and posts….but lets be honest…shit like that just doesn’t happen to me.
But hey, I can sit and be completely pissed… which frankly has been my stance for the last 14 hours, or I can pull up my big girl pants and get over it.
I’m opting for a little in the middle. It’s like I am a little baby blog again. No followers, no expectations… no crazy spam posts about how to enlarge a penis and gay porn websites (which I try to block as quick as possible…at least of course, after my bffs and I get a good point and giggle.)
One thing I was able to do however, was find a few of my posts that were spotlighted on other sites. So without further adieu, while I wipe off my hands and scramble through the old brain to write something for you, I will leave you with an oldy. Hope you enjoy! Cheers!
Last night I was lying in bed during my “happy time” in the middle of the night reading. It was extremely late so everyone had been fast asleep for hours. The husband walks into the bedroom just getting home from work and falls into bed. (The only light in the room came from the light on my kindle.) As he lays down out of nowhere (or the depths of hell as I would view it) a spider dropped from the place spiders hide to scare the shit out of you when you least expect it; right onto my chest. * Still shuddering *.
Little information about me: I do NOT do spiders!
I can handle dead things, if you vomit I will hold your hair, I can deal with blood and guts, and I like snakes and even rats… I DO NOT however, DEAL WELL WITH SPIDERS!
Therefore, now that you know that about me, I am sure you can see where this is heading. I flung the spider off me and demonstrated my best ninja moves EVER! Number 8 would be so proud! I was a serious hot mess of heebie-jeebies.
You know what the husband did?
He laughed, snorted, cried, and laughed some more.
I punched him in the arm and then shuddered and flung my arms as if I were drowning in a pool of spiders.
He continued to laugh harder.
I yelled at him about being a man wrapped in tinfoil and not my knight in shining armor, which turned him into a hissing hyena.
Here is the conversation you missed:
Husband: (Hardly understandable because of his laughter), “You better find that spider…it’s going to crawl back up and bite you when you are sleeping”
“Hell no, you find it! That’s what husbands are for!” I said as I tried to push him out of bed with my feet.
He then thought he should use his hands to imitate a crawling spider on my arm, “It’s going to wait for you to get up in the morning, and then it will jump from under the bed and eat you like on the Twilight Zone.” (Still laughing however, now he is wiping tears from his eyes.)
Me: “I seriously hope it turns you into a cocoon and sucks you dry when you are sleeping!”
Husband: “You are mean. So mean” (still snickering)
Me: I punched him, and then slapped myself all over because I swear the spider was back and crawling all over me.
Husband, “There’s probably a bunch of little spiders that are going to fall on you now because of their mom being thrown and probably injured.”
Me “I hate you”
For the rest of the night I could not sleep. All I could do was dart my eyes around looking for spiders or something to beat the laugh out of him. Oh, and before he fell asleep, He told me I better not blog about this. Ha! As if!
I believe that whatever the higher power is… in what ever religion you belong too…the husband and spiders were only developed to torment me.