Dazzle Me

This weekend's Trifextra challenge is to write a 33-word piece including these three words:

myopic
dazzle
basin


Wanna truly dazzle me this Christmas?

Keep the diamonds. Instead, how's about you teach my tragically myopic children to use garbage cans, rinse toothpaste out of the basin and flush their @&*%$ toilet?

Rut

Last week I had a piece of caramel popcorn in my hair for three hours before I realized it—and only then because the pest control guy pointed it out.

“Lucky for me your keen eye isn’t limited to spiders.” The joke fell flat. Maybe I should’ve smiled.

I’m a stay-at-home mom. That’s not a misnomer. I don’t get out much. With three kids under age 4 in tow, I need a sedative just to pick up the refill of my prescription sedative.

Lately I’m like a live-in companion to a man who pays me in boob gropes and beer farts. Our Sunday night sex appointments are currently on hold until The Walking Dead goes on hiatus. Good. I practically get knocked up just folding his boxers.

The most thrilling part of my day—besides taking my bra off after dinner—is ogling my new neighbor. Every morning at precisely 10:25, I let Disney Junior babysit the twins and confine Manning to the ExerSaucer. (Hubby took advantage of my post-delivery euphoria when it came to naming the last kid.)

Then I position myself by the window. Like clockwork, Hot Dad strolls past a few minutes later enroute to the park with his pristine little princess. She never has grass stains on her clothes or bruises from a Mega Bloks brawl.

Monday it took longer than usual to free Maisy from Mason’s headlock, so I missed the sexiest ass ever covered in khaki.

Yesterday I woke up early to decipher the triple stroller. For an extra Pop-Tart, Maisy let me brush her hair. I pulled on my nicest yoga pants and a fitted top rather than one of Hubby’s huge, holey concert tees.

Hot Dad was pushing his daughter on the swing when my brood arrived.

“Hello,” I chirped.

“Hey there.” His smile heated my insides. That, or my shirt was cutting off my circulation.

“My mommy watches you in the window,” Mason announced.

Sigh.

I’m expecting a restraining order notice any day now.

# 

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "companion" as defined below:

COMPANION
a :  one that is closely connected with something similar

b :  one employed to live with and serve another

Word count: 333



Confessions of a Tragically Cool Mom

Me: "So, you're actually gonna let me deliver pizza to you ... in public?"
Son: "Yes."
"In front of the whole cafeteria?"
"Yes."
"Do I need to wear a bag over my head?"
"No."
"Can I hold the pizza up with one hand and dance like this?" (neck moving, hips swaying, duck face)
"No."
"Will you hug me?"
"Yes."
"Really?!"
"I might even give you a kiss on the cheek."

Tomorrow is Son's 13th birthday. Today he was willing to risk supreme humiliation to treat his friends to celebratory pizza. Yep, he let me come out of hiding to deliver said pizza. Every kid in that cafeteria now knows Son has a mother. For the record, there was no kiss on the cheek, and the hug was that one-armed, sideways kind usually reserved for stinky people and pervs (of which I am neither). I got the last laugh though, because I'm pretty sure my fly was open while I was there.

It's like this: If we're to be seen together outside the confines of our home, Son would prefer I hold myself to a minimum standard of conduct. Specifically, he'd like me to refrain from dancing, singing or going off on people. Hugs should be quick, and kisses should only take place under the cover of darkness.

This whole "my mother's very existence mortifies me" thing has gone on for about a year now. It coincided with the appearance of his armpit hair, for whatever that's worth. Son doesn't seem to be embarrassed by his dad. Just me. Apparently, Hubs is better behaved than I am. The thing is, I'm actually quite cool. Don't believe me? Here are some facts that attest to my coolness:

• I don't wear mom jeans. I wear mid-rise bedazzled jeans even though my butt crack shows when I sit down.
• I know at least four Ke$ha songs.
• I can rap. Don't put on Ice Ice Baby unless you want me to break it on down.
• Jamie Foxx once asked for my number. That was, like, 20+ years ago. I'm still waiting for him to call, but I deserve cool points for that nonetheless. 
• I own a T-shirt with Thor on it that says "It's hammer time." 
• I can turn my tongue upside down and flip my eyelids inside out. I'm practically a circus act.
• Able to name nine "Star Wars" planets, I am.
• I have a mustache key chain, for crying out loud.

So, obviously Son is the one with the problem, not me. Case in point: Daughter and all her little friends think I'm über cool. Oh, yeah. I'm a big hit with the female-under-12 demographic. Daughter begs me to show the girls how to do "the running man," and it's not even so they can laugh behind my back later.

One day Son will realize how freakin' cool I am. I mean, if he's embarrassed by me now, just wait 'til I'm sporting elastic-waist, polyester pants, orthopedic shoes and have more hair on my lip than he does. You'll see, Son. You'll see.

Happy birthday to my amazingly handsome, incredibly talented, impossibly skinny son. Love you mucho!

 

Is it me, or did he look embarrassed even back then?

 

Your Agenda Is NOT on Today's Agenda

This is getting depressing.

Last time I blogged was in September, and it was a remembrance of 9/11. And the blog prior to that was about the Aurora, CO, theater shooting. Now, here I am again, writing about one of the biggest tragedies our country has ever suffered. Two days ago, some obviously deranged man shot and killed 26 innocent people at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT; before that he killed his mother with a bullet to the face. Twenty of the fallen were children, all ages 6 or 7.

As a parent, learning about the murder of 20 children ripped me apart. I'm devastated for all of the victims' families, but even more so for the mothers and fathers who will have to bury their babies. I cried off and on all day. I cried because these parents would be going to school to identify their children rather than picking them up to take them home. I cried because I was thankful my kids would be coming home. I cried because those parents will have to look at presents under their Christmas tree that their children so desperately wanted but will never get to enjoy.

I searched the Internet for information and perhaps something to help make sense of this unspeakable act. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to find people using this tragedy to further their political and religious agendas.

Right now, the focus shouldn't be on gun control or prayer in schools. There's plenty of time to debate those things. For the time being, can't we just concentrate on coping and healing? If I lost my child in such a heinous manner, the last thing I'd want to hear is how his/her death could've been avoided if our country had stricter gun laws or let students talk to God during class. I'm not arguing the merits of either stance. I'm saying that's not what anybody, especially the loved ones of the shooting victims, needs at this moment. Oh, and equating the murder of these children at the hands of a madman with abortion is ridiculous at any time. Don't. Just don't.

We as a nation should be focused on the living victims: the loved ones of those who were killed, the children who survived something much too evil for their young minds to comprehend, and even the gunman's family. How will they ever move on from this? And what can we do to help them all cope?

Many a school morning I am irritated with Daughter, who seems to think "hurry up" is synonymous with "please take your sweet-ass time getting ready." On those days, I can easily spend the 10-minute drive to school bitching at her. Sometimes there are tears; they're usually mine. Since I know mine is not the only infuriatingly slow-moving child, I hope none of the parents had a rough morning with their child--not knowing that would be the last words they spoke, the last minutes they shared. I pray no mom or dad is beating her-/himself up over something like that. No matter how bad our morning is, I try to remember to tell Daughter and Son I love them. From now on, they will never get out of my car until they've heard those words.

I pray the families of these victims will somehow find the strength to get through this holiday season. I hope in the future they are able to reclaim some of the joy they once felt at this magical time of year. I don't know how I ever would, and I don't know how they ever will, but this is my wish for them.

A final note:

I will not post the murderer's name. Frankly, he's already been given too much attention in the media. Rather, I would like to acknowledge those who died at his hand:

Charlotte Bacon, 6
Daniel Barden, 7
Rachel Davino, 29
Olivia Engel, 6
Josephine Gay, 7
Ana M. Marquez-Greene, 6
Dylan Hockley, 6
Dawn Hochsprung, 47
Madeleine F. Hsu, 6
Catherine V. Hubbard, 6
Chase Kowalski, 7
Jesse Lewis, 6
James Mattioli, 6
Grace McDonnell, 7
Anne Marie Murphy, 52
Nancy Lanza, 52
Emilie Parker, 6
Jack Pinto, 6
Noah Pozner, 6
Caroline Previdi, 6
Jessica Rekos, 6
Avielle Richman, 6
Lauren Rousseau, 30
Mary Sherlach, 56
Victoria Soto, 27
Benjamin Wheeler, 6
Allison N. Wyatt, 6

Aurora--A Parent's Perspective

I try to blog at least once a month, but this month has been a challenge. I was all set to post about my break-up with Son (more on that later), or the duct tape purse business I've started with Daughter (more on that later, too), but the massacre in Aurora has been heavy on my mind. Posting my usual sarcastic fluff feels wrong when a tragic event has just rocked our country.

I don't have any profound statement to ease people's pain. Nothing will help a sane person understand this insanity. All I can do is share my perspective as a parent, for what it's worth.

Up until a few months ago, the shooter was in medical school. That anyone would commit mass murder is shocking. But I'm truly mystified that someone who studied to care for people is now responsible for 12 intentional deaths. Somewhere on his path to the Hippocratic Oath (frst, do no harm), he instead became a hypocrite, choosing to hurt rather than heal. How does that happen? We want answers. We want to know what turns a seemingly normal person into a mass murderer. We want to know how we can prevent it from happening again. Whatever set James Holmes on his murderous course, we can't blame his parents.

I don't think any parent sets out to raise a killer. Most of us do the best we can and pray our kids will become decent human beings despite our parenting blunders. If a 24-year-old man doesn't realize by now it's wrong to gun down innocent victims, his parents are hardly at fault. By all accounts, his mother and father are ordinary, well-respected, contributing members of society. Of course they are standing by their son. He's their son. That doesn't mean they condone his actions. I'm sure they'd like to crawl under a rock and stay there until the next lunatic--who isn't their child--monopolizes the headlines. Without a doubt, their lives are ruined; add them to the list of people injured by their son's senseless act.

Internet commenters are up in arms because six-year-old Veronica Moser-Sullivan was at a midnight showing of "The Dark Knight Rises." (Please don't ask me at what tender age I let my dino-loving son watch "Jurassic Park." Other than an affinity for Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up," Son seems to be turning out OK anyway.) We all make parenting choices that give others pause but, as they face the unbearable task of burying their baby girl, Veronica's parents need our compassion, not our self-righteous judgement.

Veronica Moser-Sullivan, 6-year-old victim of the Aurora shooting

If I take my kid out of school to go to Disney World and--God forbid--she gets killed by a maniac, is it fair to vilify me as a shitty mother? Everyone's entitled to their opinion, but I hope that little angel's mother never comes across those posts essentially blaming her for her daughter's death. Unfortunately, she probably will, and that will just compound the horrible guilt she will feel ... just because she took her young daughter to see a PG-13 movie at midnight.

One final note: I was so touched to hear about the three men who were killed because they shielded their girlfriends. As a parent, I hope my daughter finds a man who would put her first like that, and I hope my son becomes a man like that.

I'm Doing It, Damn It!

It's taken me 4 years to write this post. Not this post, specifically, but my first blog post. I've attempted to blog I-don't-know-how-many times since 2008 and just couldn't get past coming up with a catchy name. Well, I'm doing it now, damn it! So, welcome to my first post.

Let me introduce myself: My name is Ivy. I'm a wannabe author and stay-at-home-mom. I love writing, reading, watching movies, all things Disney and true crime stories. I hate the usual stuff--diarrhea, cold speculums, and weak handshakes that remind me of grabbing a flacid penis. Oh, and massages. Ewww! Some stranger rubbing on me for an hour does NOT relax me. You wanna relax me? Use those "magic hands" of yours to fold my laundry.

My Family

Since I don't have a job to bitch about or something to sell, my family will probably be the main topic of this blog. To protect the innocent--and the easily embarrassed--I'll give them nicknames.

• Hubs: The man to which I'm emotionally and legally bound. He's tall, dark, handsome and unfailingly supportive of all my crazy whims and ventures.
• Son: Our 12-year-old, who considers "no" the beginning of the conversation. He's also the most kindhearted kid I know. Luckily, middle school hasn't sucked the sweetness out of him ... yet.
• Daughter: Our 9-year-old, who wouldn't know low self esteem if it smacked her in the face. She's gorgeous, smart, and talented--what's not to love?
• Grandma: My mother, who holds a large part of my heart and will soon have one of my kidneys, too.
• Sassy, our 13-year-old yorkie who has an unnatural attachment to me (If she had opposable thumbs, she'd probably call my cell phone every ten minutes when I'm not home)
• Phineas and Ferb, our yorkie pups. Hubs and I like to pretend they cuss like drunken sailors.

Why Mommy Dourest?
Well, aside from the fact that it's a really clever title (if I do say so myself, and I do), I sometimes feel like the grumpiest mom alive. I love my kids, I really do. But, if I see one more GoGurt wrapper on the counter five inches from the garbage, I may kill them.

I have some pretty awesome kids. That said, there are those rare occasions when I want to sneak out under the cover of darkness and change my name. Ok, that's an exaggeration, but moms who say they love every day with their children are full of crap ... or heavily medicated.

*        *        *

So, now that you know a little about me, I'm hoping this will be the start of a long, albeit mostly one-sided, relationship.