No Drama Mama
29 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
in Stupid does not descriminate
Don’t you remember a time in your life when there was no drama? Think hard…no, harder. It might seem really vague, but it did exist. I promise. Somewhere between the late 80′s and the early 90′s there was this huge surge of DRAMA!!! It came out of nowhere. All of a sudden everywhere you turned somebody was having some type of baby mamma drama, baby daddy drama, work drama, family drama, or something similar.
Now, I’m not talking about problems. We all have problems with our relatives, our friends, our marriages, our children, and our money. That’s a given. I’m not even talking about issues, which are slightly more crazy than just plain old problems. Be honest with yourself. You’ve got an issue or two, and if you don’t then one of your relatives certainly does. Somewhere along that family tree there is a closet alcoholic, a grandmother who shoplifts, or somebody who huffed too much paint as a teenager. Issues.
No, I’m talking about DRAMA! Reality TV-style, tabloid-worthy, make-you-want-to-pull-off-your-weave-and beat-somebody-with-it drama.
O.M.G!
It’s always over something simple. “Girrrrlllll…umf. He said his phone went dead at work today. That man ain’t never left this house without a full charge! He’s cheating with that new B**** at work! I will beat her @***!”
Hey!!! Watch your mouth! This is a PG-rated blog!
And then it starts. You get sucked into the drama. You get filled in on all the back story: how she knows he’s cheating, what she found on his phone, where’s she’s followed him…the whole nine.
Thank you for sharing.
Now she wants to tell you what she plans to do about it, how she’s gonna catch him, and she needs your help to do it!
Yes, because you have that “to-catch-a-cheater recruit” look plastered all over your face…what gives? Let’s hope you are smart about it and find some way not to get sucked into somebody else’s insane Young-and-the-Restless psychoDRAMA. Because if not, you know that Crazy Spy Girl will be right back with Cheater Face next week like nothing happened and somehow she will blame you for trying to break up her marriage.
Where do these people find you????
Facebook.
Anyway, the drama comes in all shapes, forms, and circumstances. I realized that a long time ago and have since made a concerted effort to De-Dramatize my life.
I’m really sorry if your Ex-whatever is threatening to come across three states, kidnap your kids and the dog, and run to Mexico. But since he hasn’t paid child support in five years because he can’t keep a job and borrows his Grandma’s car to go play Guitar Hero at his buddy’s house, then I hardly think he can maneuver through an international border with a red-head toddler and a cocker-spaniel named FiFi. Just saying.
Yes, I know this is your brother’s third DUI offense, and he will actually get REAL jail-time, and all you need is another $500 to get the greatest-lawyer-ever that will prove the cops didn’t know how to read the breathalyzer that showed he was four times over the legal limit. Sorry. Hope he looks good in orange.
Drama. Some people just thrive on it. Like cockroaches, they’re easy to spot but hard to get rid of. And where there’s one, there’s a hundred more just waiting. Keep fighting them off! Your happiness is worth it!
Working Mothers
26 Jul 2011 3 Comments
I hate it when people ask you whether you are a stay-at-home mom or a working mom. What kind if question is that, anyway? It’s like people feel they can categorize your mothering skills and priorities based on your answer. Otherwise, they would drop the “mom” part and just ask: “Do you have a job?” And what kind of retarded question would that be? Whose business is it whether I have a job or not. Are you going to volunteer to pay my light bill? Nobody asks a father whether he stays at home with his kids or works outside the home. They just ask him, “So, what do you do?” implying that, of course, he must have a job. If you ever want someone to look at you like you have three heads, tell them your husband is a stay-at-home dad and watch their eyeballs bulge and their eyebrows try to crawl backwards off their face as they say, “ohhh….reaaalllly? Hmmm…that’s…um…interesting!”
A mother who stays at home certainly works harder at her job than most who punch a clock. She’s up at the crack of dawn, preparing meals, changing diapers, cleaning bottles, and helping someone to get dressed, brush their teeth, or go potty. She’s somewhat similar to a nursing home attendant. She’s cried to, bit, kicked, slapped, yelled at, and may even have to vacuum as some little person physically clings to her leg, being drug along as she goes about her chores, demanding cartoons or a juice box. She’s something like a waitress and a nightclub bouncer rolled into one. She sacrifices every second of “me time” to meet the needs of her children, leaving her un-showered with no make-up, un-brushed teeth, and 3-day-old clothes. She’s quite possibly mistaken in the grocery store as a homeless person. The day drags on without a 15 minute break, a thirty-minute lunch, and very little adult interaction. There is no promotion, no vacation days, and no yearly evaluation. How many of us would take a paying job with this description? So if you say, you are a stay-at-home mom instead of a working mom, then aren’t you lying? You certainly aren’t giving yourself enough credit!
Then, there’s the working mom. It’s assumed the working mother doesn’t do all of the aforementioned tasks because she’s not home as many hours. Yet that is also untrue! She does all of these things, only she has to get them done in less time with children who are either extra-tired and whiney by the time she gets home or bouncing off the walls with so much excitement to see her that she is almost certain they could orbit the moon. The working mom hurriedly compacts her family time to accommodate getting multiple people dressed, fed, packed for the day and out the door so they can all arrive to daycare, school, and work on time. She’s like a drill sergeant in the morning! God forbid anybody lose a shoe. Once at work, she clocks in and spends the rest of her afternoon worrying about her kids, planning what she’s gonna make for dinner, and feeling guilty about how short she was with her kids in her morning rush. She questions why she even works at all when her paycheck barely covers childcare and wonders whether she just might be bi-polar based on her mood swings. After work, it’s off to pick up the kids, grab dinner to-go because it’s easier and quicker than having to cook anything and waste time cleaning up the mess, and corral everyone to do bath time, story time, and bed. Only then, can she pay bills, finish laundry, and unwind for the next day. Throw a demanding boss, unyielding work deadlines, or the guilt of having to rely on others “to raise her children” (as some…not me… would say), and you have a mess on your hands. So, I certainly don’t think working moms get the credit they deserve either.
Needless to say, I am irked by this question. My response is always: both. I am at home with them five days a week and work on weekends, so I get all the perks and burdens of both roles. And what I have learned is that finding balance is a never ending quest. Sacrifices will be made. I would like to be more involved at work, to join committees, or to take on more leadership. However, the trade-off will be less time with my children. That’s a sacrifice I’m unwilling to make. So, promotions and opportunities will come and go, my career and education remaining stagnant, in an effort to nourish and enrich my family life. I’ve struggled with that aspect of my life recently, worrying about how to perfectly balance career and family time as a single mom. But it’s time to lay that cross down. When I get to heaven, God won’t care if I stressed my way through a Master’s program instead if playing tag with my kids in the house. And He won’t care whether I made up my own children’s stories or wrote a best selling novel. What He will care about is whether I did it all for His Glory, and I find the easiest and most joyful way to Glorify the Lord is by taking care of these two beautiful girls He has blessed me with!
Praise the Lord for mothers!
The War has been won!
21 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
Okay. It’s been about a month now so I’m somewhat confident I can post this. I think we are finally through potty training. Oh my gosh…I actually held my breath as I typed, terrified I may jinx myself. Let’s hope my child doesn’t read this blog and discover my sheer joy and excitement over the fact she now uses a real toilet. I think I’m in the clear…she still can’t tell the difference between the letter S and the number 2. But you never know what they’re teaching them on Nick Jr. these days. She can already hold short conversations with our downstairs buddy, Juan Carlos, thanks to Dora and Diego. Hola, amigo.
I have to give credit where credit is due: a huge thanks to my bestie, Tara, who sent me a very helpful article about fear of potty-training being caused partly by a need for control and partly by separation anxiety. Yes, separation anxiety over losing your poo. Out of your body. Gone forever. Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? Really??? Yes…my strong-willed child who would hold her poop for days, negotiate her way out of pooping and into getting snacks anyway, and would scream at the top of her lungs that “It’s not FAIR!!!” when I made her sit on the potty was sad to let go of the poo. I know that sounds CRAZY, but when I actually considered helping her through the anxiety…voila! Potty trained!
So here’s my little speech playing to her little hearts concern over what happens to the poo:
“Hannah, when you say your belly hurts that’s because you have to poo-poo. The Poo-Poo (capitalized because he has now achieved a human persona)…the Poo-Poo wants to come out of your belly so he can go in the potty and get flushed. When you feel your belly hurting, that’s the Poo-Poo knocking on your tummy to tell you he needs to come out. Once you flush the Poo-Poo down the potty he gets to go to a poo-poo party (something like a birthday party?) with ALL his poo-poo friends.”
Okay, now I’m the crazy one.
Her response made me almost poo my own pants, and thankfully I did not, as that would have been somewhat counter-productive to my goal. She SMILED. No tears, no cries, no screams. Absolutely no defiance whatsoever! In fact, her little eyes gleamed with excitement as she climbed on the potty and asked me all sorts of questions. Why did the Poo-Poo live in her belly? Can he swim? What does he do at the poo-poo party? Will he be sad if he can’t see his friends? Do they have cake at their party? And then, my friends, Mr. Poo-Poo got to attend what only Hannah and I could have imagined to be a grand fiesta! (because of course, he speaks Spanish like Juan Carlos and Dora)
Whose crazy now?
She has done so well since that night! I am very proud! She never wears pull-ups, even at bedtime. She sometimes goes without me reminding her, or even better, she reminds ME. And she has only had one accident. ONE. In a month. About which she informed me that it was not she who pooped her pants, it was someone else. When I asked who, she blamed her cousin Jayden. Of course, nevermind he wasn’t even with her that day, she blames him for everything.
The PsychoNetwork
20 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
in Stupid does not descriminate
Facebook has got to be one of the most ingenious concepts that ever materialized! It has evolved from simply being a website to being a full on action verb. Taking about something important at work: “Hey, yeah…that sounds great! Just FACEBOOK me the details.” Running into an old high school friend: “It was soooo good to see you after thirty years. Do you FACEBOOK?” Want to totally embarrass a relative: “Dude, I am totally FACEBOOKING this?”
Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a Facebook page. My fifty year old parents Facebook, my bosses and coworkers also, my neighbors, my small group, all my friends and relatives, old college instructors, etc. I don’t know anyone without a Facebook account. I bet someone has even created a page for the homeless crackhead downtown that picks a fight with the parking meters or poops at the bus stop every weekend because I KNOW somebody has him in their “mobile uploads.”
I have a love-hate relationship with FB.
It can be a total conversation killer.
ME: “Hey, you won’t BELIEVE what happened to me yesterday!”
FB User: “Yeah, I saw it on FB already.”
ME: “Oh. So what’s new with you?”
FB User: “Did you not see my post this morning? I got like 25 comments and 38 likes!”
ME: “Nevermind.”
Conversation is pointless between habitual Facebookers.
Have you ever thought to yourself, “If you weren’t related to me, I would totally delete you as my Facebook friend!”
Do you find that your criteria to be someone’s friend on FB is set at a far lower standard than what you require of your real-life friends?
What the hell is a “poke”, anyway, and why is that so funny to some people?
Have you ever defriended someone because they play Farmville too much or kept flipping “poking” you for no reason?
Have you ever taken more than five minutes to come up with your status or googled a famous quote to make yourself sound smarter?
Have you ever posted a status, then “liked” it? That’s a little redundant, don’t you think…I mean, if you wrote the post then one would assume you like what you wrote. Just saying.
Have you ever anxiously awaited a co-worker to quit so you could defriend them?
Have you ever added someone you don’t know just because they sent you a friend request? Have you ever added someone you met once and now they post on your wall all the time?
Do you ever get tired of reading what other people are having for dinner? Do people ever “check-in” to anywhere other than a bar or restaurant…like the toilet, Lakeside, or 201 Poplar? Because, well, THAT’s the kind of stuff I want to see on MY newsfeed.
Don’t you always want to ask people what happened when they change their relationship status from “in a relationship” to “single”?
Go ahead…count how many girls you’re FB friends with that have a profile pic that shows more of their boobs than their face! I dare you!
Have you every scrutinized your profile pics to choose one that was “Facebook-worthy”? Don’t you hate it that your friends always tag you in the worst pictures you’ve ever taken in your whole life?
Have you ever been honked at waiting at a green-light that was red before you opened your mobile FB app to check your messages?
Have you ever gotten so bored that you get mad that nobody is posting on FB?
Yep, it’s addicting and quite ridiculous. I could go on and on, but the fact is: as annoying as FB can be it is also equally entertaining! It has brought old friends back into my life and allowed new friendships to grow. It provides a source of support, an outlet for anger and frustration, and a platform to share my randomness with the world. Happy Facebooking!
What’s your theme?
15 Jul 2011 1 Comment
Have you ever noticed that people tend to have “themes” to their lives? For example, some people are just lucky. They are the ones who never play the lottery, yet one day will randomly buy a lottery ticket and win a bajillion dollars. Or other people who are always in the right place at the right time, like the people who get tickets to the Oprah show when she does her favorite-things-giveaway…”Everybody in the audience today gets a CAAARRR because I love caaaaaarrrrrs!” Yeah, I love cars too, Oprah. However, if I bought tickets to your show, you would surely have Dr. Oz as a guest talking about weight loss and giving out free colon cleansings. No thank you.
Anyway, I’ve noticed certain themes to my life in the last two years that I’ve been blogging. Some were quite apparent beforehand, like I’m a klutz and I chronically lose things. That, I get. But other things that stand out catch me off guard. For example, poop seems to be a recurring theme in my life. Just read back a few posts and you will see as I did, that I talk about poop a lot….the smell of poop, cat poop, my daughter’s ability to poop or not poop. As a mother and a nurse in an infant unit, I can not make you fully appreciate how much of my life revolves around analyzing the fecal matter of others. Sometimes, that’s the main topic of conversation between me and the doctor. If I were of Apache descent, my Indian name would certainly be Runswithdiapers, because in both my personal and professional life that is what I do most.
And if it’s not crap, it’s gas. Not the bodily kind, although its a good thing I didn’t blog during either of my pregnancies. I never remember to put gas in my car until I’m coasting on fumes, and then, I’m most likely to chose the ONE gas station that’s out of everything but premium or isn’t accepting debit cards at the moment. Hello?? Who carries cash anymore? In nursing school, I was running late for a mandatory skills check-off and hurriedly was fueling my car when I inadvertently soaked myself with about ten gallons of mid-grade. I had no time to change clothes, so I showed up in gas-soiled blue jeans that made the whole floor smell like the inside of a BP tanker. One instructor, with tears in her eyes from the fumes, was kind enough to tell me, “Don’t worry. You passed. Please leave.” Just the other night, after having dinner with my best friend, I headed to my kiddos grandmother’s house to pick them up only to see there was a roadblock because of, you guessed it, a flipping gas leak! Right in front of her driveway, no less. So there I sat, staring at her mailbox, steaming because I was tired, had to pee, and wanted to get my kids. All the while, some duffas neighbor stood at the end of the driveway scratching his butt, staring at the lights from the squad-cars and gas trucks, and smoking a cigarette.
And I don’t know what the deal is right now, but if there is a roadblock anywhere in Desoto county, I’m gonna find it. Only once in the five years my husband worked for the police department, did I ever go through a roadblock. And he was even working that one. Ironically, I have gone through at least five in the last six weeks. Two in one night, actually. The night of the gas leak, when I could finally get to my children, we left an hour or so later and they were turning cars around on HWY 51. I guess it’s better than being stopped, though, because I am always so nervous when they ask for your license and insurance. I don’t know why, I’m never doing anything wrong. But I’m always certain they will find some weird new thing to give me a ticket for, “Ma’am, did you realize it is now illegal to place your cell phone in the cup-holder on the driver’s side of the car? Too distracting. Please step out of the vehicle.”
If I had to pick a theme to my life, it would certainly have nothing to do with crap, gas, and being so blocked-up. It just goes to show you what an incredible sense of humor God has.
Life Lessons
13 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
I learned a very hard life lesson for mommies tonight: children thrive on routine and consistency. Actually, as a mother and a pediatric nurse, I was already well aware of that fact. However, I overestimated the resilience of my child and have been selfishly undermining her ability to see the world as a reliable and consistent place.
My heart aches over our loss. I may smile on the outside, laugh with friends, and blog about random nonsense, but I am shattered on the inside. I am assaulted with constant painful reminders of how drastically our lives have changed and how much I wish I could turn back time and do something, anything, different to prevent this from happening. I live out each day in my own worst nightmare. Trying to wrap my brain around what my oldest is going through drops me to my knees, begging for God’s mercy. The agony is unrelenting, the full extent of my grief silent, as I have to carry on and find strength for my children. Grieving is simply a luxury that I can’t afford right now.
My best coping strategy has been quite selfish. I hate being at our rental apartment because it doesn’t feel like home. If anything, it’s the antithesis of home. It feels empty, completely absent of anything that remotely resembles our life. There is not joy, warmth, nor memories. It’s just a place to hang our clothes, shower, and sleep. Occasionally.
I have become the master of excuses for why it would be easier to stay somewhere, anywhere, else rather than here and most nights we don’t come home. For this reason, my children are suffering. Katelynn hasn’t had a bath since Friday. Hannah needs fresh clothes that fit. Naptime is non-existent, their toys are scattered at houses all over Desoto county, and their bedtime changes every night. There is no set meal times, no snacks in the apartment, and no alone time with mommy. We live out of our car, bouncing from place to place, with no rhyme or reason, just trying to stay busy so I don’t have to hurt.
Hannah finally had the ultimate meltdown tonight, and I won’t rehash it, but it gave me a hard dose of reality. She needs me to get a grip. I’ve got to put my feelings aside and start focusing on what’s good for her. She is desperate for the return of her consistent routine so she feels safe and secure. She needs routine to trust and understand the world. ALL children do. Life for a child cannot be lived from a carseat. It is not one big string of playdates, shopping trips, and sleepovers.
I can’t do this alone. In fact, I may even meet resistance in my determination to do this for her. I have to prepare for the tantrums. We won’t get to spend time with family and friends as much as I would like. Sometimes, we are just going to need to stay at home and have family time. I have a curfew to stick to: 8 o’clock is bedtime. Our house. This is our new normal. This is what she can trust in and rely on. I can only pray for strength and understanding. It’s a hard lesson to learn but it is in the very best interest of my children and I will continue to walk through Hell for them if that is required of me.
The Duck
11 Jul 2011 3 Comments
My life revolves around endless searching for two things: (1) my car keys, but more importantly, (2) this stuffed duck. Keeping up with this duck is a daily battle. He goes everywhere with us. He belongs to Hannah and has affectionately become known as “the one-eyed duck”.
He wasn’t always so shabby. At one time, he was a bright yellow, fully-stuffed, two-eyed cuddly companion. We acquired him just by chance at a random yard sale one day on our way home. As Jerry and I perused through a neighbor’s unwanted goodies, Hannah, who was just one at the time, toddled about pointing and naming items. The neighbor thought she was so irresistibly adorable that she went inside her home in search of a special gift to give her. When she returned, she handed a cute, fuzzy little stuffed duck to Hannah.
Now, although we smiled and thanked her as we got into the car, Jerry and I were exchanging meaningful looks to each other to signal that we were both thinking the same thing: this duck was destined for the trash. Poor Duck. Sad story. You see, Jerry and I were kinda weird about certain things like practical strangers giving random stuffed animals to our only child. I mean, we didn’t know anything about this duck: where he’d been, who’s mouth he had been in, what ulterior motives he had for our child…the usual. However, when we got home Hannah made it very clear, mostly through tears and screams, that she wanted to keep the duck. I think her exact words were, “Mine!!!” when her Daddy tried to take it away and replace it with another, known-to-us stuffed animal. So I washed the duck and they have been inseparable ever since.
Unfortunately for the duck, Hannah had a very strange habit at the time. She would pluck the fuzz off of her stuffed friends and shove it up her nose while sucking her thumb. I’m not sure why half-suffocating yourself with fuzz brings comfort, but I can tell you it makes for interesting and brightly-colored boogers. Countless washings have robbed the duck of his color, his one eye, and most of his stuffing. His neck bow is now tattered threads and he has a smell that a tank of chlorox bleach couldn’t kill. He’s quite possibly biohazardous at this point. It can be a little embarrassing when we are out and about and strangers curl their nose and comment on the duck or pick it up after she drops it like it’s saturated with a flesh-eating virus (which is entirely possible considering all the times he’s been dropped on the Walmart bathroom floor). My response is always the same: this duck has been very well loved!
Not by me, off course. This duck is the bane of my existence. I am constantly searching for the one-eyed duck that is inevitably lost or left behind at least ten times a day. Just tonight, in my absent-minded rush to get the girls home sometime before dawn after a long and weary 12 hour shift, I forgot to check if we had the duck. Hannah noticed his absence just as I was getting her settled onto the couch for bed. Perfect timing. She wailed for thirty minutes while I sent frantic text messages to her grandmother inquiring about the duck’s last whereabouts. Don’t worry, the duck was found safe and arrangements have been made for his drop-off in a secure, undisclosed location. I had to promise Hannah that we would retrieve him first thing in the morning before she would even consider closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep.
Although I will confess, being the great mother that I am, I do exploit her intense love for her fuzzy companion to my advantage sometimes. Every now and then, when Hannah is particularly naughty, the duck has to go in time out. That tactic works well for tantrums, potty training, and getting her to eat her veggies. Okay, I’m lying. McDonald’s doesn’t sell veggies, but you get my point. Actually, I have to admit I have grown quite fond of the duck. Rather, I sincerely appreciate the consistency of comfort he brings to my little one whose world has been so topsy-turvey of late. I dread the day we lose the duck forever, either because she doesn’t need him anymore or because we can’t find him (which is more likely considering I’m responsible for keeping track of him).
So my plea to you, my friends, is this: if you ever find this ratty duck at your house DO NOT don gloves and Lysol and dispose of him. Take a long, hard look at the little guy. He’s one of a kind. However, should you find a new, fluffy little duck that resembles him while you are out and about one day, buy one…or a dozen. Then take it home, rip it’s eye and most of it’s stuffing out, let your dog chew it, and back over it with your car a few times. Then send it my way!
Creature Discomforts
07 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
This little story, I guess, could be considered the prequel to “The Crazy Cat Lady” story. It was not my motivation for getting the cat, but it really REALLY helped me decide to get the cat NOW rather than wait until we settled into our new house. I’m a lover of all things multipurpose: feline companion by day, savage vermin hunter by night. Works for me!
I discovered I had a mouse right after I moved into our apartment. I never actually saw the mouse, just the little presents he left me on the kitchen countertops. So I washed all my dishes, got rid of all the food in the house, and made a mental note to get a trap. In all my day-to-day business, I kept forgetting about the trap, however, until I came home one day and found he had chewed through the nipples of two baby bottles! The war was on.
I had the landlord come and set the mousetrap on Friday. I diligently checked it each night hoping to find the little sucker dead. Nothing. But I also wasn’t finding anymore presents so I was hoping he had seen the trap and headed south of the border to Juan Carlos’s apartment below me. As if a mouse wasn’t enough to handle, Sunday night after a long work day, we came home and the window air unit had shut off…again. We have no central air right now, so I depend on that unit to cool all 1800 square feet of the apartment. This is apparently too much work for it to handle, and it angrily rebels against me by shutting off probably five minutes after I walk out the door so it feels like a sauna by the time I get home. Needless to say, it was hotter than Hades in the bedroom, which is the furthest room from the air unit, much too hot to sleep. I reset the unit and piled us all in the living room to enjoy a nice cool night of much needed rest. Right beside the kitchen.
At 2am, Katelynn woke up to eat so I fed her and decided to let her fall asleep on her playmat on the floor beside me. Something about leaving her on the floor bothered me and I briefly thought of the mouse. Surely he was gone, right? I hadn’t seen signs of him for days! He had nothing to eat! He’s gone, I just know, he’s gone. Whatever. No sooner had I thought about him when his furry little self scurried right out from under the couch and was staring at my baby’s face with his beady little eyes. EEEEEEKKKKK!!!
I’ve never moved so fast in my life! I probably set the world record for jumping off a couch. I grabbed both my kids and locked us in the back bedroom as far away from the mouse as I could. (Yes, I physically locked the door should the mouse wander into radioactive juice overnight and grow to the size of Splinter. I’ve seen Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I know all their little Jujitsu tricks) The next morning, there he was waiting for us in the hallway, tormenting us with his menacing little whiskers and sharp little tail. Ick!
Instead of coming home that evening, like a coward, I just stayed the night at my sister’s house using the excuse that we were too tired to drive ALL the way home (five minutes) after watching the fireworks. The next morning, when I had to go home to get us all showered, I couldn’t go in the living room at all. I sat in the playroom feeding Katelynn while Hannah happily played with her dinosaurs. Peace, ahhhh.
Suddenly Hannah let out this blood-curdling scream that made me almost come out of my skin. She had seen the mouse for the first time and her little face was crumpled in terror, her body frozen with fear! That’s it! We are about to have a dead mouse on our hands!
I didn’t really think so much as I just reacted, driven partly by my own fear of the mouse and partly by the rage that only a mother can feel when something is scaring her child. It’s funny how people react to small, creepy crawly things. Just the other night, we found a spider the size of a bobcat in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. Four adults scattered in four different directions with eyes wide and no coherent words coming from anyone’s mouth. Just sounds of distress as we all frantically looked for something to squish it with. My mother-in-law even grabbed a Lysol squirt bottle in an effort to spray it to death, I suppose. Finally, my senses came back and I just stepped on it. An audible sigh went through the room. Why do such small things induce such great fear and panic in us, causing us to act so witless?
My reaction to the mouse was no different. With the baby and the bottle still in hand, I chased that sucker all over my dang house. At one point, I had him cornered by the front door but I couldn’t get the door open fast enough to let him out before he scurried back in the direction of the playroom, through the dollhouse, and into a corner where he smacked his head against the wall. Thwack!!! Ha! I chased him some more and he smacked another wall, then another, and then her toy piano. I guess he knocked himself senseless, because he ran into an open toy purse and didn’t come out, as if to surrender. So I quickly laid the baby down (yes, she was still in my arms as I chased this little jerk frantically around the house), and I grabbed a blanket to swaddle the purse in and threw the entire purse outside. It smacked the concrete with a squeak and the mouse came flying out and scampered away.
Holy Moly! I just picked up a mouse…ALIVE! Ick!!!! I haven’t seen him in the house again, but I’ve seen him outside twice. He’s lingering, waiting for his opportunity to find a way back inside. I’m entirely certain he came from the rental furniture place. I bet he has a nest somewhere inside my couch. At least, I hope it’s a HE. The last thing I need is little mouse babies running around!
Crazy Cat Lady
07 Jul 2011 1 Comment
in Stupid does not descriminate
Let me start this story by stating that Hannah asked me for a kitty about a month ago and I told her she could have one when we moved into our new house. Since I made her that promise, I’ve been thinking about what kind of cat would be best, considering that she is very three and not so gentle, and I also have little Katelynn to worry about. So, in my infinite mommy-wisdom, I decided an older cat would be better than a kitten so I could get a better idea of what the cat’s temperament would be like around my children. Good plan, right?
If I’m honest, my motivation to get a cat was accelerated along by the mouse I found, and caught…alive…in my apartment and threw out on the porch. It gives me the heebee-geebees just thinking about it! Ick!!! But that’s a separate blog post all together. Let’s just say, I was suddenly uber excited to get a cat, sooner rather than later.
Enter “The House of Mews”: a feline-rescue shelter on South Cooper in Memphis. There’s a feel-good moment for you! I wasn’t just getting a cat, but I was adopting some precious, abandoned unwanted kitty who desperately wanted a family to love it! Awww! I already pictured myself writing out the donation check to the cause, picking out the best litter pan and cat toys, and carting my little kitty home for Hannah to love as it purred to it’s little hearts content. I was psyched! And Hannah was psyched as I prepared her for what it would be like to pick out her new pet.
We waited until 4pm when they opened and headed inside. “House of Pew” is a more appropriate name. To say it was rank is a gross understatement. It smelled like I shoved a litter pan UP my nose! Cats were everywhere: in baskets, on furniture, locked in cages. It was awful. But I held my breath and pushed on…why? Because I love my child and she was all giggly and jittery with excitement like only a three year old can be.
So, from the minute we walked through the door (myself, Hannah, Katelynn, my sister and her two kids), the owner was having a fit. Her first comment was, “I guess it’s Zoo Day today!” Rude. But I ignored it because, yes, we are quite the crew. Women with children. Sucks for you. But then she said it again, louder. And again. She kept fussing about the kids touching the cats and talking about how the kids are covered in disease and would make the cats sick. Really?! Because I was thinking the same thing about your cats touching MY KIDS. She refused to help us and I should have left, but when it comes to keeping promises to my child, I can suck up other people’s stupidity.
Fortunately, there was a very friendly volunteer who helped us choose just the right kitty and handed me an application. Yes, apparently, you are not pre-approved like Visa and MasterCard. So I filled it out and the part that asked “Who are you buying this cat for?”, I proudly checked the box that said: My Child. Another proud mommy moment. I LOVE doing things for my kids. More than anything. Unfortunately, Devil Cat-Lady used that as an opportunity to interrogate me. Why did I not check: Myself? Would this not be a family cat? How was I going to keep the kids from letting the cat out?
I ever so patiently, and with great restraint, and yes…as HARD as it was, very little sarcasm…satisfied all her answers which drove her crazy. She didn’t want us to have the cat. She laughed at the fact that I told her my children could not let the cat out because, well, THEY don’t leave my sight and wander out open doors so there was no way they’d be letting the cat out! Are you kidding me? They are three and four months! They don’t get to go potty, or to bed for that matter, without me. She then told me she didn’t think I was responsible enough for a cat with the children, especially since I was getting the cat for my child instead of myself, and this was a huge problem. She would take my number, run my application through three animal protection agencies, and give me a call IF we were approved. (No, I swear…I couldn’t make this stuff up!) Like credit bureaus, only for cat-ownership? Do you get a credit score?
So, in other words, we were DENIED. I can raise two kids by myself, but obviously, I am too shady to care for an animal that’s barely one step up from a squirrel. It’s a cat, lady, not a child from Ethiopia. Where’s Brad and Angelina when you need them? Anyway, I told her to just tear up the application and not worry about, which she promptly did with a big fat smile on her face before I could even finish my sentence. So glad I didn’t have a really sharp pencil in my hand, because I genuinely wanted to poke her eye out after I explained to my crushed child that, no, we wouldn’t be taking a kitty home from there.
After I loaded the kids in the car, I was stewing so hard, I couldn’t see straight. So I went back inside and lost it on her. I told her how incredibly rude and disrespectful she was and how horrible it was for my child. She was completely unapologetic and told me my child needed more than a cat. I couldn’t speak to her anymore after that, so I just told her I would pray for her and left.
I’m not sure if you can pray for the Devil, but I’ll try. I left feeling sorry for Hannah, and for the poor kitty that could have come home with a loving and adoring family, but will now sleep in a cage of cat poo for heavens knows how long. All because this nasty woman has hatred in her heart for children. What has to happen to you in your lifetime to make you that incredibly mean?
However, always one to look at the bright side, or my version anyway, I left grateful that I don’t go home everyday smelling like a cat crapped on my face.
