Crap I Didn't Know Until I Became A Mom

In no particular order, a sample of the kind of wisdom that is bestowed upon mothers everywhere, usually sometime between the last push and high school graduation.  It is, much like our most coveted role as MOM, in constant progress.

1.  You can get stretch marks anywhere.  As in, anywhere.  Go ahead.  Take a look around.  I'll wait.

2.  Half a soggy chicken nugget, three goldfish crackers, and half a cup of hydrogenated something or other will and can pass as your dinner.  On a good day.

3.  A little pee in the tub never hurt anybody.

4.  Playdates are better if you don't have to stay.

5.  If the urge strikes, and you have to go to the bathroom, and the newborn is crying and the toddler is whining, you will kick into survival mode; the baby on the boob, the toddler on the lap and the air freshner on standby.  It's either that, or Depends, my friends.

6.  Your offspring doesn't care if you have a 102 fever and your insides are turning into molten lava.  These kids are the meanest, most unrelenting bosses you will ever have.  You thought that Manager at Kinko's (the one with butt breath and no concept of personal space) gave you hell for calling in sick?  HA!

7.  "Mommy!" doesn't sound quite as precious when it's being hollered out at 2:00 a.m. between violent bursts of vomit a la Linda Blair. 

8.  Pregnancy weight becomes just good old fashioned FAT if it's still there when your son is pulling out of the driveway on his way to college. 

9. If you don't already have a degree in Engineering, and you are considering becoming a mother, you should register at your nearest university and get one, just in case you ever have to take apart and then put back together your 12-in-1 stroller/carseat/poopchute/child restraint combo.

10.  Summer.  Exact opposite from "SUMMER!!", which is what it was when you were a kid.  This is S......u.....m.....m.....e....r.  As in 8 weeks of no school for your kids.  As in, they are around all day long.  As in suddenly a 9 to 5 telemarketing job selling comprehensive breath treatment packages for hamsters sounds like a dream come true.

Another Reason Why I Eat Cheese-Its at 1:00 O'clock in the Morning

Among the mystery cans and salad dressing bottles in the bed
among the in-home therapy each day after school
the YouTube videos on repeat
the inappropriate squeals during church
the stims and elopement that always keep us on our toes
there is that other thing we don't talk about quite as often
because, after dosing you with what can only be described as a crapload of medication twice each day,
we rarely see it for months at a time, and end up taking the silence for granted
then
like an overlooked child starving for attention
it stomps its feet
and throws a good old fashioned tantrum
while I'm feasting on mini-pizzas and homemade guacamole

Your eyes roll in the back of your head
a split second of disorientation for you
a lifetime of anguish for me
and when I turn to hold you in my arms
it happens again
and
again
and
again
and by the time Your daddy comes home
I am struggling not to crumple to the floor
and throw a  #$#%%-ing tantrum of my own

Instead
we watch Princess and the Frog
and carefully tally the times
you are interrupted by
this neurological misfit
and I wonder what you're thinking
and what you would say to me if you could speak
and how I would trade places with you in a second

The beauty of your long lashes
pressed against your lids
don't make any sense
as you give in to this ugliness
and you are exhausted now
and so am I
but I wait until you sleep
before I let the weight of the world
consume me

Tomorrow
I will let you watch that part in Cars
as many times as you freakin want
and I'll let you snuggle with condiment bottles
and you can eat chocolate on my white comforter
and splash all the water out of the tub

and
while we cuddle on the couch
your breath steady against my neck
I'll have to really think about
how I'm going to accomplish
never letting you out of my sight
again

Can I Borrow A Dollar?

Recently, after going over some banking statements, my husband made a startling discovery: I've been spending all of our money.

No one was more surprised than me.  "Really?" I said.

He gave me one of those looks that suggested I sleep with one eye open that night. 

So ever since he realized that I've been steadily (and rather happily) spending our dollars and cents and spirling us towards financial ruin, he's gone completely mad and, citing some mumbo jumbo about the future, retirement, college funds, blah blah blah, begun implementing a new budget.

This means that within a few short days one of the following will inevitably happen:

1.  I will be filing for divorce.
2.  I will be featured on 48 Hours:  "The Man Who Tried To Stop His Wife From Shopping At Target And His Gruesome Untimely Death.  Coincidence?  Fat Chance."
3. I will turn my kindergarten class into a sweatshop (call me Nike!).  Assembly lines are a great way to develop those important fine motor skills.

If you have any other ideas on how to survive this very scary economic crisis that I am suddenly facing, please get in touch with me asap. 

Do you think I qualify for unemployment?

Also, would it be too forward if I started a giftcard drive (canned goods give me heartburn).

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some tantrums to throw.

And a sh!#load of receipts to shred.

What Did You Just Say?!

I love teaching at the same school where Superman is a thriving first grader.

Being able to sneak in hugs and kisses as he passes me on his way to art class.

Watching as he outruns his friends during a game of monster tag during recess.

Listening as his teacher sings his praises as a natural and gifted reader while eating lunch in the staff room.

Taking special Mother and Son spring portraits, his arm draped over my shoulder, our posed smiles glistening in perfect unison.

Hearing him shout "Oh SH!%!!!"* as he rounds the corner of the snack area and almost eats it in the mud.


..........wait.

WHAT?!


The only consolation for me tonight is that I get to bust him twice.

Once, as Mrs. Ashline, the mild-tempered but no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who happened to overhear a naughty word come out of a young student's mouth and took swift yet fair action to ensure it does not happen again.

And a second time as Mom, the frazzled, overworked, underpaid, crazy B*** who cannot believe her son would say something like that, and who will spend the rest of the evening alternating between belligerent tirades and guilt-infused sobbing to ensure her son considers anything more than "Oh purple petticoats; this is an unfortunate set of circumstances that are making me feel slightly less joyful than three seconds prior" a cuss word.

*For the record, I know exactly who he learned this word from and all I can say to those parents, is Good.  Freakin.  Luck.  

Another Name for Coward is Daniel Dorn

I want one hour in a locked room with a schmuck named Daniel Dorn.
Don't know who I'm talking about?  You can read all about it here. 

His now ex-wife, Abbie Dorn, went into cardiac arrest and suffered brain damage while delivering their triplets four years ago.  A year after her injuries were sustained, he decided to "move on" with this life, and filed for divorce.

I don't  begrudge him that.  I cannot imagine having to care for three little ones while my spouse requires around the clock care.  Even though most of us married folks exchanged vows on that blessed day that stated we will stay together "till death do us part," unforeseen and tragic circumstances beyond our control, such as this one, can alter our good intentions and well laid plans.  I can sympathize with this man wanting to focus on his babies while grieving the loss of his wife as he knew her, believing in his heart that she would never again regain the full use of her mental faculties. I do not proclaim to know the pain he endured.  Nor do I ever want to.

But to not allow this young woman to have any contact with her children, whether they are recognized by the court as being legally so or not, is an unspeakable act of malice by a man who can only be described as a coward.

She will never hold them against her beating chest, whispering sweet nothings in their ears.  She will never wipe their tears from their eyes as she mends a playground boo-boo.  She will never read Goodnight Moon and lull them to sleep with off-key renditions of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.  And no.  She will never be their "legal guardian," as defined by the courts.

But she is their Mother.
Whether she is on a feeding tube or not.

Even heroin-addicted prostitutes are given endless opportunities to screw up their kids.

This woman is being denied any contact with her children. 
Has not seen them for years.
As if she has perpetrated some God-awful crime.

He claims he does not want to traumatize his children.
Children are taught to fear what they do not know by the adults in their lives.
These kids are only four years old and what they are able to tolerate and withstand outside of the bubble their father has created for them is only limited by his own misrepresentation of the circumstances.
This is a man driven by ignorance and fear.  And the longer these children are kept from seeing their mother, the more likely they are to catch his awful disease.

The smell of their hair.
The twinkle in their eyes.
The sound of their unfiltered laughter.

Who  is he to say that this woman is undeserving of experiencing these things?  And who is he to say that she, as well as her children, will come away from such visits with nothing gained, nothing to treasure?

What disgusts me the most, is that he would probably be more comfortable allowing the children to visit her had she not survived and was buried in a local cemetery.

Dare I say, Mr. Dorn, that someday, your three preschoolers will be able to decide for themselves, just what kind of father "protects" them from their severely disabled mother.

I just want one hour dude. 

No weapons.
Just the rage and pain of a mother unable to see her kids (on behalf of your ex-wife, of course).

Never mind.

You don't stand a chance.

***Update***
Thank you everyone for your comments. As of yesterday, March 25th, 2011, Abbie Dorn has been granted five supervised visitations per year, as well as the ability to "communicate" with her children via Skype. The judge noted that the children developed a bond after visiting their mom for the first time and held her photo close to them. Daniel is also to keep a photo of Abbie in the kids' rooms as part of the court order. My heart swells with joy for Abbie, and I continue to hope and pray that with time, her visitations will increase. No matter what the future holds for Abbie, being in the presence of her precious children can only provide her with the kind of strength, hope, and love that only a mother's heart knows. And as far as the children are concerned, being able to connect with their mom in a way that is unique to their circumstances is infinitely better than keeping them away from her because she is frightening in some way. The logic behind such thinking is what contributes to a society that believes disabled individuals are somehow less deserving and valuable than the rest of us. I pray that EVERYONE, including Daniel, find peace with this situation, so that the entire family can move forward and heal.
  

I'm Sorta Not Okay. I Guess.

On Sunday morning, I was awakened by my eight year old in his usual style:  climbing on top of me and pulling my hair.  He keeps doing it, because despite my best efforts to get him to stop, it works every time.  It's hard to sleep while someone is trying to give you a haircut using their fists.

He gave me that wide goofy grin that makes my heart flutter and lets him get away with...anything.  
Except on this particular morning, his giant toothy smile was short one tooth.
Not a big deal usually, since eight year olds are known to lose their baby teeth for more durable and ridiculously disproportionate permanent ones.
But I didn't even know this particular tooth was loose.
And he of course, didn't tell me.  It just peacfully ended its existance in the middle of the night and he must have swallowed it; that's four out of five now that have made their way down his esophagus instead of inside an envelope.

The whole thing happened so quietly.  The requisite wiggling and dramatic updates on a loose tooth's status that occur each time Superman goes through this childhood milestone weren't there. 
In fact, Monchichi didn't notice it was missing at all. He just looked up at me, his head cocked to one side as I stared at the empty space where the tooth used to be, wondering how long it was loose, upset that I hadn't noticed in the first place.

Maybe it was because I was so sick this weekend.  Or maybe it was because I'm overwhelmed about some personal realizations I have come to in the last few weeks.  Or maybe it was just because I didn't want to go through the motions of pretending that he was going to understand something so abstract this time and that I could force some normalcy down our throats even when  it tastes bitter and....wrong. 
Whatever the reasons were, I went against Typical Mom Protocal, and didn't invite the tooth fairy to come celebrate tooth #5.  There were no fake notes under his pillow in the morning, or crumpled dollar bills.  There were no special treats to signal the departure of this renegade tooth. 

I.  Just. Couldn't.  Do.  It.
And it doesn't matter why, I guess.

We are on a journey, as parents of this very special little boy, where the road often winds around decisions that bear huge consequences.  For him, and for us.  And I have, over the years, taken many detours along the way in the hopes that I can guide him towards some more average experiences....the kind that don't come with major side effects and that require cheesy fictional characters and some imagination.   But here I am, denying him the tooth fairy; and I think I may be sort of okay with that. 

Because I'm sort of tired.
And
because
EVERYTHING is harder because of him.
It sucks to see that in print. 
But it's so true..

And sometimes, it's all I have in me, to just get us to the dinner table, coax some calories into his mouth, and bathe the missed goals of the day right off of him.
Sometimes, it's all I have in me not to give in to the dark side, the side that wants me to fail and fluster, to say I'm not strong enough to endure this special needs life and that I never will be.
Sometimes, it's all I have in me not to get on top of the nearest table and shout "Hey everyone!! Look at me!  I'm a big faker!  I don't have it all together!  I'm petrified on the inside!  I have no idea what the hell I'm doing! I'm smiling only because if I don't, I may begin to feel the shards of glass that have wedged themselves inside my soul and then the truth will come out that  I. Am. Scared."

So here I dwell today, somewhere between "Oh Mary*, you look great; how's little Marcus? and "Oh Mary, how 'bout you f#!$ off and die."

I  suppose it's up to you whether you want to stick around and see how it plays out.

Friday Monchichi will be admitted to our local children's hospital and will be put under general anethesia for what most people consider a typical dental visit.  Think of him, would you?  We have a great team of doctors and I trust them (to an extent), but ultimately God is in charge and I'm hoping to catch him on a good day.

And maybe, just maybe, the tooth fairy will understand why I didn't summon her this weekend and will leave our copay under the pillow.


*Mary is a fictional character.  Though that is my mother-in-law's name.  But I'm not talking about her.  This time.*

I Almost Had To Write This in the Bathroom

I've lost six pounds!
In less than 48 hours!
Apparently all it takes to get this mama into her favorite pair of blue jeans
is a violent strain of gastrosomeoneshootmeintheassbeforeihavetogotothebathroomagain. 

Yesterday, during a particularly bad spell, I was leaned up against the toilet, covered in sweat, suffering from what some may describe as a total psychotic meltdown.  I suggested to my husband that he  get some help ("CALL 911!!  ARE YOU DEAF?  I'M DYING!!") but he didn't believe me and suggested right back that I calm down ("CALM DOWN CRAZY. YOU'RE FINE!")  Personally, I didn't like his tone but the full body chills and uncontrollable dry heaving sort of took my mind off of his unwillingness to believe that this was the end.

By the way, nothing is more demoralizing than having to spend an entire day at the mercy of the most disgusting appliance (is it even considered an appliance?) in the house.  Except maybe if you don't get to it in time.  That can sort of crush the 'ol spirit as well.

So basically my weekend has been a total crapshoot (it's cheap, but it's all i've got).
But the good news is that I'm staggering to the bathroom, lookin mighty fine (apart from the sunken eyes, intermittent hair loss, and matching bruises on my palms from what I like to call, "bracing for impact") in a pair of jeans I haven't been able to wear for years.

So call me, ladies, if you want to come by and catch this productive little bug; we can shoot the sh#% together.

Medical Malpractice

So during my shower this morning I had a little blast from the past and I randomly remembered the time my doctor from the good ol days (and by good ol days I mean the days when the nurse didn't have to keep pushing that black lever thingy on the scale over until it was all the way at the end and then add ten pounds on top of that to get a ballpark estimate)  did  something that I think totally broke the Hippopatumus Oath; you know, the one they have to take when they graduate from school and can legally dispense the kind of meds that make colonoscopies whimsical. 

Anyway, I had been seeing this doctor since I was about nine (though we were free to see other people), and on this particular visit I was going to beg him for some brand new diet pills that were turning chubby patients everywhere into really thin people with a penchant for vaccuming at 2:00 a.m.  I had tried everything to lose the few extra pounds that I felt were preventing my white knight from knocking down my door and ravashing me in restless abandon (although I did have a pretty sturdy door, so that may have been it also)  and so I asked him what he thought of this phen-phen; before I could swipe the extra prescription pad off  his counter  he gave me some samples and sent me on my way.  The turmoil my loved ones suffered when I began these pills is for another time, another post.  But let's just say I became less person and more rabid raccoon.  Of course, let's also not lose sight of the fact that I looked freakin hot.   Which apparently my doctor appreciated, because the next time I came in to see him, he hit on me while swabbing my tonsils and asked me out on a date  I was feeling vulnerable and also there was a five-inch Q-tip down my throat,  so  I said "dkghtlllyt;lthh" which he misunderstood for "sounds great!"  So we made dinner plans, and the bastard still charged me my co-pay. 

Weeks later he took me to a pharmacuetical convention at a super swanky restaraunt and suggested that if people asked I tell them that we met at the stain glass class he taught at the local community college on the weekends.  The whole experience was really strange and if I remember correctly, I told him I was going to go to the bathroom, called someone who wasn't old enough to be my father to come pick me up, and got the hell out of there.  I may or may not have swiped a bag of stool softners and eczema cream samples on my way out.

This ended up being the same doctor who,  when my mom sent my sixteen year old sister to get bloodwork done and she freaked out and didn't want to, took a red marker to a cotton ball, stuck it on her arm with a band aid, and told her to go home.  True story.

I tell ya.

Nothing like an obtrusive memory about the time your horny little doctor tried to give you a "check-up" after- hours to start your morning off right. 

Whatever happened to Folgers?

And Guess What?!

7:05 a.m.
"Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Guess what?  So I was on the playground and then Benny came up and he wanted to show me this bug he caught by the tree, you know, the tree in the corner with the big green leaves, and so he showed me the bug and I was like 'eww, that is one giant bug' and he was like 'ya, we should put it on Veronica's desk' but I told him that wouldn't be nice and then Guess What I was running past the swings and I tripped over the wood chips and I landed on my butt!! hahahahah! but then I got up and I was okay and I went back to the slide because duh, that's where David was and we played Monster Tag but only for like five minutes because it got really really really boring but then Guess What Ms. Smith brought the rats out from the classroom and they were taking a nap in her arms and then GUESS WHAT one of them peed right on her hands can you even believe it?! but she wasn't mad and she used a wipe and wiped her arm and we laughed and then my teacher called us in back to class but Guess What we had to go the looooooong way because Erma was the line leader and she made us walk all the way around the buildings instead of just going the regular way which is by the drinking fountain which everyone knows is the fastest way there but Guess What we got back to class and then we cleaned our desks and then it was time to go home and tomorrow we're going to start studying Ladybug larvae."
7:05:52 a.m.

Does anyone know if Calgon has been discontinued or something, because I keep calling it to take me away, but it's not working.

I hate false advertising.

Playboy Playmates are People Too

*Warning.  This post contains PG-13 rated material.  If you're feeling like a prude, get over it.  If you're here because you are a disgusting pig and  googled something nasty then ended up on my blog instead, HA HA!*

 I recently realized that I have way more in common with Playboy Playmates than previously thought.

For instance, I too live with my 199 year old boyfriend in a giant mansion with two other carbon copies of myself and frolick in the master bedroom wearing a bikini made of locally grown citrus rinds while Yanni plays mood music via pan flute in the background.

Oh.  Wait a minute  That's not right. 
Um.  Let me try that again.

Much like a centerfold, I also have giant fake boobies you could bounce office furniture off of and a closetful of size 2 designer jeans for when I'm feeling fat and frumpy.

Oops!  That's not it either!

Hmmmm.  Let's see.

Well, I do have some bunny ears laying around somewhere, though they're probably still coverd in leftover dried macoroni and cheese from the time Superman refused to take them off and wore them to the dinner table then fell asleep, ears first, in his food bowl. 

But that counts, right?

Clearly, I am making a point here.  And that is that it is difficult to wash dried mac and cheese out of bunny ear headbands.

So maybe there are a few slight differences between a Playmate and me, but nothing too noticeable.

I especially feel in tune with Kendra, the ex-girlfriend of Hugh Hefner turned-NFL-Wife-and-Mommy.  She has her own show and though I never thought I would hear myself say this about a woman who posed nude in magazines and did all sorts of icky stuff with a geriatric pervert, I totally get her. 

Because once Kendra left the Playboy mansion, got pregnant and married (clearly we share the same misunderstanding of the whole "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage) and gave birth to her son, this wild party girl stopped being a blonde bimbo with a shiny stripper pole in her living room and became a bloated, sniffling, emotional, madly-in-love, protective, confused, hungry, exhausted mommy. 

Just like me.

So despite having an assistant, living in a mini-mansion, gracing the cover of OK magazine each week, and having a Target budget I can only dream of and disgustingly drool over (i'm talking large quantities of spit here), when this woman coos at her son, blows rasberry kisses on his belly, and promises him the world as he lays sleeping in her arms, I am perfectly in synch with what she is going through. 
Because brazillian wax or not, a mother's crazy love for her child  and the subsequent emotional roller coaster of parenting, is pretty darn universal.

Plus, it sort of makes me happy to think that underneath those giant size two jeans, there may be a stretch mark or two.  You know, as a sign of unity.

So let me know Kendra, if you need someone to talk to about postpartum depression, playground bullies, and how to sneak veggies into dessert. 

And if I'm ever in the market for a uh, lesson on the proper techniques of dating an corpse older man and flashing girlie parts at a stranger's camera, I'll know who to call.

Say "Ahhhhhhhhh"

My best friend had her tonsils out this morning.

The days leading up to the procedure were nerve wracking for her, since the doctor told her that for an adult, the recovery time was long and excrutiating.  He even prescribed her the kind of pain pills that come with "do not share this medication with anyone" and "prolonged use may result in a heroin addiction, followed by a short-lived and unsuccessful stint in rehab" warnings.  I'm thinking she should stick with tylenol and sell the good stuff at local playgroup meetings.

So the poor thing is home now, in a lot of pain, and won't be able to eat for days.   Her throat is swollen, she can't talk, and her menu consists of lukewarm water with a side of spit.

And all I can think about is.............how much weight the bitch is going to lose.

So if you'll excuse me, I have some competitive starving to do.

I know.

What are best friends for?

Screw This. I'm Going to Starbucks.

A snapshot of someone living with OCD. 

To you, a creepy pile of half-opened tea bags.

To me, a ten minute quest to fine the "right" one.

Now.  Is this enough to make you retreat slowly in the opposite direction?

I hope not.  Because after all, this is A Sweet Dose of Truth.

 

And I'm just getting started.

Now someone bring me a freakin Starbucks, before I die of thirst.

Forgive Them Father, For They Know Not What They........Wear.

Ah.

Easter Sunday.

The day Catholics around the world let out a cummalitive sigh of relief and indulge excessively in everything they gave up during lent, such as cheese, chocolate, foul language, booze, and reality t.v. 

Oh.  And there's also that whole, Christ is Risen bit, which is sort of a big deal if you aren't too busy watching "Kendra" and getting loaded on that solid mik chocolate Peter Cottontail you've had your eye on since that fateful encounter in aisle 6 on the morning of March 7th.  Hypothetically of course.

Anyhoo,
a traditional, long, overcrowded, early-morning mass is part of the festivities; little girls in frilly dresses, little boys in button-down shirts and neatly pressed dockers, picture-perfect families praising the Lord in their Sunday best.

Um.  Unless you're the tween that's sitting two rows up from us.  Where the frack is your frilly dress?  I too enjoy the old saying "shake what the good Lord gave you," but from my understanding, you're not supposed to shake it directly at the Lord.  Are your parents blind?  I mean, like actually, legally, braille-reading, without-sight, retina-challenged blind?  Because that would be the only way to excuse them from letting you out of the house in these and not calling CPS (Catholic Parent Sinners) on their, ahem, @sses.

(Please don't make fun of me as I was in a hurry to shave prior to taking this photo and I might have missed a spot)

Then there's that whore mother of three, perched suggestively in the pew to the right, who, though her desire to provide for her children is admirable, apparently forgot to change after her shift at "Clive's House of Cleavage."  Let's just say her hard boiled eggs were in some serious need of being hidden.

And you Sir.  Yes, you.  Slouching in the back. Mid-thirties. I know that God gave us all free will and blah blah blah, but yours should be revoked immediately.  Why you ask?  Well, because clearly you aren't fit to make your own decisions, judging (which is exactly what I'm doing) by the 10 inch metal barbell protruding from your nose.  God may be all-loving but even he recognizes an unforgivable fashion faux pas when it dangles dangerously from one of the dumber sheep in his flock.  I just pray sir, that you do not sneeze in this direction.  There are a myriad of ways I have pictured myself dying; bludgeoned by a snotty facial sword is not one of them.

So.  As you can see, our Easter Service was filled with lots of prayer, celebration, and quiet reflection.  Also, people who thought the flyer said Clothing Optional, women who dyed their hair to match their handbags, and a priest who, and I swear on this blog that this is the God's Honest Truth, uttered the phrase "What are you smoking?" during his homily. 

Basically, it was way more "Catholics Gone Wild" and far less "Hallowed Be Thy Name."

But somewhere in between taking it upon myself to condemn people to hell and fantasizing about my smooth, silky, milk chocolate Peter Cottontail waiting for me at home, I managed to bow my head in silence and thank God for everything and everyone in my life.

Including you.

It's Too Soon For Hitler Jokes

I woke up last night, around 2:00 a.m., with vertigo. 
It's the gift that keeps on giving.

After stumbling down the hallway, I made some peppermint tea, and carefully sat down on the couch in the living room to try and relax with some mindless t.v.

I settled on Sabrina the Teenage Witch, since I was pretty sure the poignant story line wouldn't keep me up and would in fact, bore the spins right out of me so that I could be back to sleep in no time.

And then it happened.

A seemingly harmless, comedic reference to......Hitler?????

There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to start.

But I'm gonna give it a shot.

I've had both the privelage and horror of visiting Aushwitz (one of the largest concentration camps during WWII, preserved as a memorial site and museum) twice in my life and let me assure you, there was nothing funny about it.  The nightmares lasted for months and I still shudder when I picture the rooms full of hair, clothing, and children's toys; visual reminders of just a fragment of the millions of people who lost their lives in one our world's worst historical atrocities. 

Being Polish (don't act like you didn't know) has meant that a great deal of my upbringing was spent reading and learning about my war-ravaged homeland and that Hitler maybe sorta kinda wasn't the nicest guy in town.

So I say, it's too soon for Hitler jokes.

And by too soon I mean, Never.  Never okay.  Not. Ever.

Or Martin Luther King Jr. assassination jokes.

Or 9/11 jokes.

Or jokes about famine, war, disease, developmentally delayed children and adults.......you get the picture.

"But who will we make fun of," you (very annoyingly, might I add) whine.

There are plenty of things and people to make fun of (reality t.v, CEO's, politicians, prescription drug commercials, and most of your relatives and coworkers just to name a few).  Let's leave the super serious stuff alone and respect it by passing along the historical facts to subsequent generations.  When we lighten the tone by making a joke, we take away from the absolute necessity to ensure these events never happen again and eradicate the idea that they are no longer relevant just because some time has passed since their occurance.

I rarely whip out my pointer finger and wag it in the air on this blog.  But this really upset me.  And not just because you got a good night's sleep and I didn't (although I am sort of mad at you for that).

Now, go forth and make fun of someone who really deserves it.

Like your boss.

   

Parking Lots Can Be Prolific

I am in the parking lot
digging for keys
coming
d
o
w
n
from
a pediatric dental visit

I am fumbling in my purse
among folded stacks of pre-op papework
forms I need to fill out
for the son that
refuses to open his mouth
and
requires a hospital stay
(they better give him an extra turn at the treasure chest for that)

She pulls her black suv into the parking spot next to mine
another suburban mom
another appointment
and
I hear her waking her sleeping beauty
small arms stirring in the carseat
a flash of brunette curls through the open passenger door

I stuff my boys into the back of the Volvo
absorbed in Deductibles
20% co-pays,
the potential risks of General Anesthesia

Deafeated
because
Why. Does. Everything. Have. To. Be. So. Hard?!

I turn to find
a tiny fairy princess
awakened
drenched in pink
her mama bending over her
making sure the straps aren't too tight
on her custom built
wheelchair

My self-pity
p  u  d  d  l  e  s
at my feet

I do not compare our pain
because
it doesn't make sense
to silently compete

we are both mothers, after all

I just quietly realize
that this world is filled with women
like me
loving their babies
fearful of the future
really freakin tired at the end of the day

I bet
if we went out for coffee
we could finish each other's sentences
the facts slightly fluctuating
but the bottom line,
our desire to protect, nurture, provide for our little ones without losing our minds
the same

and with this thought
I feel my strength renewed
despite knowing we will see plenty of
simple things
almost
always
become
very
complicated


in this silent communion
with this mother I do not know
I feel
a sense
of
peace

and on the short drive home
I wonder
if that
sturdy metal wheelchair
will manage to keep up
with her
daughter's
GIANT
dreams