Midwestern Mommy

A few weeks ago, while transporting Seth to a birthday party, I thought, “Hey, its been a few weeks since I’ve last felt humiliated. Yeay Me!”

You know what I’m about to say here, don’t cha.

We arrived at the birthday party with me thinking we were late. Turns out, Seth and I were there 25 minutes early. Once I realized this, I apologized profusely to the birthday girl’s parents for infringing on their prep time. The mom of the birthday girl was very sweet and gracious. She said it wasn’t a big deal that we were early. But I wanted to crawl under some chairs or the closest rock I could find.

But this was nothing compared to what I did later on.

As the guests arrived — we moms and dads sat on the floor talking. (This wasn’t a house party. It was hosted at a kid’s fitness facility.) While listening to a fellow mom, I looked back and realized there was a rectangular mirror about (2 ft x 16 in) in back of me on the wall. But it wasn’t where you’d normally put a mirror. It was located an inch from the floor. At this point, I remembered how I had on low-slung jeans. And how, because I had no clean underwear, I was going commando. I glanced over my shoulder toward the mirror. My t-shirt had been riding up my back as I sat there. A gap in the waist of my jeans exposed something no one should ever have to see — two inches of my asscrack.

I then realized that the dad of the birthday girl and another guy were situated catty-corner to me. Odds are they got an eye full of the only kind of “cleavage” I possess. These poor women probably did too.

Words can not describe how horrified and humiliated I am. Now if I had the hot body of Seth’s swim teacher? It wouldn’t have been all that bad. But no. I have a “baby got some SERIOUS back” butt that hasn’t seen the inside of a gym — or the sun for that matter — in a long, long time. Think JLo with 15 extra pounds, on a diet comprised of ice cream and ding dongs, three years after she’s fired her personal trainer.

What sucks is that I see these people quite often as our kids are all friends. Now, every time they see my face, are they are going to think of my ass crack? And then will they throw up a little in their mouths? Or maybe they’ll try to find a horse to kick them in the head in hopes of getting that mental picture out of their mind?

I emerged from that experience a bit wiser. I realized two things: 1.) I need to expend more effort to ensure I always have clean underwear 2.) that the scorned “mom jeans” have a definite place and need in not only society’s wardrobe but mine as well. And maybe, just maybe, I need to respect the “classics”.

Today Seth and I were in our neighborhood Quik Trip. (Oh Quik Trip, how I love thee! Your fountain soda selection is lovely. And although I get dizzy thinking about all of the crazy concoctions I could create, alas I get the same thing everytime.)

As Seth and I stood in line to pay for my “Coke cocktail” (3/4 diet coke with 1/4 regular Coke) and his chocolate milk, Seth did what he usually does. He squatted down to study the candy bins. (I am amazed at how the candy bins can capture his full attention for minutes on end. Nothing but the Hotwheels aisle at Target can compete.)

At one point he turned to me and said, “Mom, could I please have a piece of candy?” He gave me “the eyes”. You know what I mean. Those sweet, innocent eyes commonly found on Precious Moments figurines. Only a person with a shriveled heart made out of tar can resist “the eyes”.

At that point I said, “Sure bun. You can have a Tootsie Roll.”

He said, “Thank you”, then picked out two small Tootsie rolls. Then he quickly, quietly returned to my side. (And yes, I said “one” but when it comes to little boys who hate to stand still in a line, but do so with no fuss or fury, taking an extra Tootsie roll is a silly thing to make an issue out of, yes?)

A Quik Trip employee who was stocking the candy bins caught the exchange. He said to me, “You know, I rarely hear a child ask for candy in such a polite way. Most kids start whining or screaming at their parents to buy something. You’ve got a really great kid there.”

Of course, this made me melt.

“Yes. He IS a pretty good boy,” I said. “I thinking we’ll probably keep him.”

The employee laughed and walked away.

When we got back out to the car, I gave him a big hug. I only let go when he said, “Mooommmm. You’re hugging me too tight.” I told him how proud I am of him and how wonderful he is.

Seth is a high-energy, motor mouth. He’s a tornado disguised as a little boy. My patience had been wearing thin lately. I needed a stranger to remind me of his sweetness. I feel kind of guilty that I did so, but yet so grateful someone did.

(And trust me, although he’s a good kid, he’s not always that well-behaved.)

So Wednesday morning I inadvertently got a little menthol oil (from a Vapor Plug in) on my lady parts and spent most of the day feeling like someone crammed a York Peppermint Patty up my hoo-hoo.

By late afternoon, the minty sting in my crotch had subsided. This was a welcomed thing.

That evening we found a Halloween bucket of goodies on our porch and realized we’d been “boo-ed”. Yes! Free, surprise candy DOES make everything all better!

(Getting”boo-ed”: Inside the bucket ‘o goodies, you’ll see a little poem asking you to create two more baskets of sugary fun. Then you include a copy of the poem you’ve received as well as a little ghost sign. And, all sneaky-like, you deliver the baskets to other unsuspecting people. You post the ghost sign you’ve received in your window so no one “boo’s” you again.)

So last night after making up baskets, I hopped into the car to make some deliveries. I found a home in need of boo-ing, got out of the car and slammed the door. My brain registered “PAIN, PAIN, PAIN.” I mentally shook it off. There were baskets to deliver. I took one step and was pulled back. I looked back at what was keeping me tethered to my car and realized, MY THUMB WAS STUCK IN THE CAR DOOR.

How sad is that? Being so tired you don’t even realize you’ve gotten your thumb caught in the car door. What’s even worse is that it took my brain a few seconds to register that I should OPEN THE DAMN DOOR in order to free my thumb.

But don’t worry. This did not stop the delivery of the bucket o’ goodies. It did, however, make me wonder if I was going to vomit on my friend’s lawn. (Pain makes my stomach angry.)

But the upside? Its a great way to wake up if you haven’t had any caffeine. And, like menthol oil on one’s hoo-hoo, it will keep you WIDE awake for HOURS on end…

(The thumb is fine today — just swollen, bruised and a bit sore. I wrapped it. No biggie. Am feeling the pain of stupidity more so than anything else.)

At 5 a.m. I heard Seth talking to himself in his room. He was WIDE awake. I told him to go back to sleep. He didn’t. Ten minutes later, after hearing more and more talking, I asked him if he’d like to go into the guest bedroom and lay next to me.

I grabbed our pillows, blankets, his Vapor plug-in (he’s had a cold) and staggered into the other bedroom. I plugged in the Vapor thingee, got us situated then laid down next to him.

A few minutes later, I had to pee. When I walked out of the bathroom, I felt an odd sensation in my crotch. And then I realized… I must have gotten some of that menthol oil on my hands. And then I handled toilet paper…. And Oy!

If a girl ever has that “not so fresh feeling”, getting a little menthol oil on your lady parts will make you forget all about that! Seven hours later, the stinging has subsided and I feel as if someone shoved a York Peppermint Patty up my hoo-hoo. Depending upon your opinion of the minty chocolate candy, this can be either a good or bad thing.

(But the added bonus is that today? I didn’t need any caffeine to wake me. I am WIDE awake — apparently a minty fresh hoo-hoo will do that to you.)

Apparently I have a large sign on my head which can only be seen by doctors. The sign must read, “THIS WOMAN IS A COMPLETE MORON. SHE DESERVES NO RESPECT. BE RUDE AND SHE’LL PROBABLY JUST GO AWAY.”

Grrrr.

Went to a sleep specialist today because that whole not sleeping thing? For a number of YEARS? Is not a good thing. I have headaches daily. I’m fuzzy-brained, and am lethargic throughout the day. I’m crabby. And, despite continued workouts, I’m gaining weight. Plus, although I’m 33, I look A WHOLE lot older. I am not aging well. And frankly, my vanity is getting the better of me.

But the biggest reason I went is because someday I’m going to need to find a job. And I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t do a very good job when I’m getting so many headaches and can’t remember a conversation I’ve had 10 minutes ago. And they might not like me nodding off at 2 p.m. most days.

So I made an appointment at St. Luke’s Sleep Clinic last week. I went there today. I find out I most likely have sleep apnea AND insomnia. Gah. So a sleep study is next.

This all is fine. What pissed me off was the following conversation:

Me: I have problems falling asleep (blah blah, mind racing, blah, for years, blah.)
Dr: We have some drugs you can take for that.
Me: Well, we’ve been trying to have a baby. So I’m all for drugs if they are safe to use during pregnancy.
Dr: No tests have been done to confirm whether problems result with the fetus but yes, we probably don’t want to put you on any drugs if you are planning to conceive. We could use another tactic. What you do is you go to bed later and get up sooner each day. You create a sleep deficit. Then you gradually let yourself sleep more. You’ll be so tired, insomnia won’t be a problem. You will retrain your brain to think of your bedroom as a place of rest. Not anxiety.
Me: Well, that sounds good. But I get migraines if I have a few nights in a row of not enough sleep.
Dr: Stares at me like I’m an idiot.
Me: Stares back. Waiting for him to say something else.
Dr: It appears you want everything. And you can’t have EVERYTHING.

No, I don’t want everything. I want a fucking decent night’s sleep on a semi (at least) regular basis. Have you seen my skin? Have you seen all of the zits on my face?? Have you seen the bags under my eyes? This dull look in my eyes isn’t because I’m stupid. It’s because I’M FUCKING TIRED. And I feel like I’m about to lose my shit over this! I worry that if the outside of my body looks this shitty, then the inside must be far worse.

So I looked at the man. I didn’t know what to say. But I managed.

Me: Taking care of my son is MY job. If I get migraines I can’t do my job. My husband has to stop his work and take care of my son. If my husband has to do this more than every once in a while, he’s going to get fired. Then I will have even bigger problems than migraines and insomnia.
Dr: Well, I guess you’ll have to find a way to work around that.

And that’s when I realized this man has never had a migraine in his life or insomnia for that matter. (And then I wanted to GIVE him something to worry about!) I doubt he has kids. His 20-something ass was too well rested and groomed for that. After that exchange I wasn’t tired anymore. I was angry. Very angry. But I held my tongue. I got my paper work and left.

I really want to get a new sleep doctor. But if I stick with Dr. Jack (as in jackass), I could get my sleep study done next week. And then I’m that much closer to the possibility of a good night’s sleep on a regular basis. Or I could wait and find someone who’s not a complete jerk. But judging by the doctors in the St. Louis area, its quite difficult to find one that’s not. And really, I’ll be happy to overlook the asshole factor IF HE’S GOOD AT HIS JOB and in the end I get some quality sleep.

What is it about doctors acting as if they are the only remotely intelligent people on the planet? Is it just me? Or does this happen to you all too?

First off, THANK YOU so very much for all of those kind comments of support and cheer. (I’ve missed you all. And you guys made me miss you that much more!) As for migraine stuff — I’ve gone through several specialists over the years, cat scans, MRI’s, and have tried a multitude of preventative drugs — from meds that control epilepsy and anti-anxiety to beta blockers. You name it and I’ve probably been on it.

I come from a long line of migraine sufferers on my dad’s side. One such ancestor (grandpa) met an insomniac (grandma) and decided to have 10 children with her. The result? Alot of my aunts, uncles and cousins have either one problem or another. And a few of us lucky ducks got BOTH! But my dad has sworn that his migraines decreased once he hit 40. I cannot WAIT to turn 40! I also can’t wait for menopause as I’ve heard that will help with the insomnia. (I’ll be the only chick you know that’s happy about “night sweats” and “hot flashes.”)

In the meantime, I’m thinking I need to change my strategies and fix the sleeping issue first. And thanks for all of the great suggestions. I’ve made some notes and started researching avenues based on your feedback.

I promised in the last post that I’d quit wit da whinin’. And I’m going to deliver…

Check out the dude in this ad. Um yeah, he makes me want to buy that costume! Oh baby. You’re a heavenly buffet of manliness. (Um. No. Not really.)

I just have one question: does the roll of quarters he’s shoved down his pants come with the costume? Or is an aspiring CHiPs officer on his own when attempting to flaunt a “Hi. I’m sorta happy to see you” semi-perky penis? And if the coinage is included, does it come with some really strong tape to keep it in its place? (Preferably, tape that doesn’t rip out a bunch of the leg hair/skin?)

I think tape would be needed. What if the coins got loose and tumbled down to the floor? The poor dude would lose $10, his bulge, AND his self respect all in one sweep. Or what if the bulge came lose and the guy met someone he really WAS happy to see? There would be two bulge!

Some horney, drunk girl would be mighty disappointed once those pants would come off… Especially if she saw quarters taped to the guy’s thigh. But on the upside — at least she’d have enough change for any parking meters/candy machines…

Hello.

Sorry I haven’t been updating. And I’m sorry I haven’t been visiting your sites. I have been thinking of you all alot and wondering what’s going on in your lives.

It has been very busy here socially. But what sucks is that although we’ve had alot of plans to do fun things, we’ve only gotten to do some of them. I have bouts of insomnia and I also get migraines. Since the start of October, I’ve had six migraines thus far. Its only the 10th! The insomnia has been kicking my butt every night for well over a month now. Unfortunately, Seth has had a total bitch for a mommy. And my hubby has had to pick up alot of slack around the house. While I am very grateful to him for helping out, I feel guilty. The insomnia and migraines have controlled so much of my life over the years — especially in 1999, 2001, and 2004. Those were tough years. Those were the years I averaged 9 to 12 months of chronic migraines. During those times, I had anywhere from 15-25 migraines A MONTH.

And now I’m wondering if I’m approaching another one of those chronic migraine time periods? Will my pain and insomnia govern yet again my and my family’s life? Frankly it makes me cry.

I hope to do a sleep study at some point. My body just feels so screwed up. I’m thinking this is the main culprit for the migraines.

So sorry to not be keeping up. And sorry that this post is so down. I promise I won’t post until I have a happy or funny story or photo.

Hope you all are well. And I’m thinking of you guys!

May I present the latest photos of a little boy who so badly wants to be a Big Kid that he can taste it? (Hmmm. Tastes like chicken!)

Seth started playing soccer this fall. Actually, “playing soccer” is a bit of a stretch. He goes to practices all suited up only to spend 5 minutes listening, 30 minutes running after his team mates and the rest of the time playing in the dirt. Its quite fun to watch — especially when you can sit back in your lawn chair and laugh with the other moms.

The games are just as much fun. But at this age, it should be called, “cluster ball” as all of the kids cluster together while chasing the ball.

During the first game, Seth would run a few steps, lose interest and start talking to the other team’s goalie or a fellow teammates with waning attention spans. But the past few games he’s been running with the herd. Actually? He’s usually about seven steps behind the herd. But still, we consider this a small personal victory.

Last week we bribed him. If he kicked the ball three times (during the game) he’d get a Matchbox car. It didn’t matter if it was a kick in the wrong direction. We just wanted him to make some contact with the ball. The bribe proved to be a big motivator. After his first kick, he ran to the sidelines where we were sitting to make sure we saw him. Then he regaled his coach, teammates and anyone who’d listen about his kick.

At one point he was standing by his team’s goalie gabbing with one of his teammates. He ended up blocking the other team’s kick. He had no idea the ball was even in his area until it hit him in back of the leg. Then he argued that should count toward his reward. In the end, he made his kick quota and is now the proud owner of a new blue Dodge Charger Matchbox car.

Right now soccer is all about running around with new friends, acting silly and eating yummy slushies afterward — just the way things should be at this age — fun.

This past week we were graced by the presence of a most extraordinary woman. Marc’s sister, Nicole, came into town. (This was a wonderful thing — at least for us. Spending hours pushing Seth on swings, listening to his stories and fashioning cool things out of Play-doh only to then deal with an obnoxious brother and sister-in-law probably felt more like boot camp than vacation.)

In the wee hours of one sleepless night, I collected my pillow, blanket and cup of water in search of a quieter room and a better chance at catching a few winks. Nicole was in the guest bedroom. I didn’t think she’d appreciate me asking her to scoot over at 3:30 a.m. She might find that a bit weird. So I snuck into Seth’s room. I crawled into his double bed, held his sweet little hand and soon fell asleep.

At 7:30 a.m. he awoke — far too early for me. I tried to lure him back into the bed. I cajoled, but to no avail. Then I appealed to his ego.

“But Sweets,” I whined, “I NEED you to cuddle up next to me. I need to hug on you a bit.”

His retort? “No mommy. Not now. I don’t have TIME.”

Ouch.

Those words have never flown out of his mouth before. But I’ve said them countless times.

When he wants me to lay next to him at night, he’ll ask me. I’ll say, “No sweetheart. I don’t have time.” Then I rattle off a list of things I want to do.

Sometimes he’ll ask me to play cars with him. And I don’t want to. Truth is, he’s sort of bossy and he always gives me the broken cars to play with — or worse — no car at all. I get to PRETEND to have a car. Plus there’s always something to clean, a bill to pay, a blog to read, or phone call to make. So I’ll often say, “I can’t sweetheart. I don’t have time.”

The day-to-day task of raising a child is sort of looking into a mirror and inspecting your appearance. There are days you really like what you see. But there are some days you catch a glimpse and realize that what you’re doing now? Isn’t working so great.

I know that saying, “there’s no time” is an excuse. The sad truth is, I’m not MAKING time. Daily life has gotten so hectic that I’ve sort of forgotten. Plain and simple? I need to — not only for him but for me. Because someday he’s going to grow up.

And I don’t want him doing so without me.