I Wonder Why I Talk to TWH Some Days

Okay, so. Whenever I point out something TB does that’s goofy or something TLBD did that’s silly, TWH responds “TB gets it from you” or “TLBD learned it by watching you”. I finally had enough tonight and in utter exasperation asked TWH through gritted teeth “WHY is it whenever either TB or TLBD do something stupid or ridiculous, you try to put it all off on ME??”. TWH looks at me and responds with “Because if I don’t blame you, it forces me to conduct a painful introspection and I don’t want to do that”.

The man can be the biggest asshole some days.

Those are the days I wonder why I even bother talking to him AT ALL.

It’s a damn good thing he’s cute…

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This One Time, At Brunch

Okay, so. We always took the kids out to eat when they were little. Our theory was that in doing so, they would learn how to behave in public. Some outings were better than others.

See, one day, we were out for brunch with the kiddos, and TB, who may have been two-ish, was playing with his butter knife by pretending it was a “Light Saber”. He was also getting cranky because the food was taking approximately forever and he was hungry.

As time passed, TB became more and more agitated and his “Light Saber” movements became wilder and more erratic. This was when we chose to take the butter knife away from him before he hurt himself or someone at our table.

Big. Mistake.

See, playing “Light Saber” with his butter knife was the only thing keeping TB from going completely batshit crazy up in that restaurant. When we tried to take the knife away, he totally lost his shit. He began fussing and waving his knife around like a crazy person until the knife flew out of his chubby little hand….

And through the air….

Aaaaaand hit Jimmy Swaggart ( who was sitting at the NEXT table) In. The. Head.

(*Note: For those you not in the know, Jimmy Swaggart is a Baton Rouge based televangelist who, in the late 80’s-early 90’s, lost pretty much everything when he was caught with a prostitute. Twice.)

Anyways, we’re sitting there absolutely mortified and apologizing for TB’s assault upon Jimmy Swaggarts person. He was gracious enough about the whole thing. Saying he understood and it wasn’t a big deal.

We resumed waiting for our food ant trying to keep the kids entertained. TB grabbed a fork from the table and started using it as his NEW “Light Saber”. At this point, I was just happy he was entertained & relatively quiet so I let him have at it. TWH wasn’t quite as content with that decision. He anxiously asked “What if he throws it again?? “What if he hits Jimmy Swaggart in the head AGAIN?? Do you have a plan for THAT??”

I looked TWH straight in the face and said simply “Cry. I’m going to CRY.”

If it’s good enough for Jimmy, it’s good enough for me, dammit.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.  Our food arrived and TB was forced to turn his “Light Saber” back into a fork in order to feed himself.  We got lucky.  Me crying on cue is some ugly business y’all.

(*Note: When JS was caught with the SAME prostitute, AGAIN, he went on tee vee and stood there all bawlin’ & snottin’ & cryin’ asking for his flocks understanding & forgiveness. That was totally my plan.)

 

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My Dawg is an Asshole

Okay, so. The Little Brown Dawg gets to spend the weekend at the vets office getting IV fluids and activated charcoal. Why?? Because he ate most of a half-pound bag of dark chocolate that I gave TWH for Valentines Day yesterday.
“How did he get it??” You ask.
Oh, the little bastid worked for it.
See, our house is open floor plan. The kitchen, dining room, and living room are basically one big room. I have the furniture arranged so that TWH’s favorite chair is close to the dining room table. Many’s a dinner we’ve had while TLBD sat on the back of TWH’s chair and gazed longingly at our food.
Today the bag of chocolate proved too great a temptaton and the fuzzy little bastid LAUNCHED himself off TWH’s chair and ONTO the dining room table where he happily began chomping his way through the candy.
TB discovered TLBD’s transgression when he got home from school. He called me. I called TWH. TWH googled just how much trouble we were in, then called me back going “Yeah… He needs to get to the vet”.
While we were on our way to pick the Dawg up, I told all of the Twitter (which in turn, told all of my Facebook) about his escapades of the day. My cousin’s wife responded with “He’ll be fine and perhaps will have learned a lesson” . I responded “He will be fine. He won’t have learned jack shit though. WE, on the other hand, have learned NOT to leave candy on the dining room table”.
See?? We CAN be taught!!
That doesn’t make TLBD any less of an asshole. If he earned an allowance, we’d use it to pay his mutha’ flippin’ bill.
And buy TWH some more candy. Which we would keep in the pantry.

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Communication Breakdown

WARNING: I am fully aware that this post will step on some toes and maybe cause some people to get their noses out of joint. I’m writing it anyway because this is where I get all the stuff out of my head. If you read this anyway, then it’s on YOU how YOU choose to react.

 

 

 

Okay, so. I told you guys a couple of weeks ago that we’ve gotten dragged into Cancer Town. Looks like we’ll be staying about 6 months or so, so we won’t be settling in.

Here’s the thing. We have a serious failure to communicate. TWH & I live 5 hours away from my In-Laws. We’re the ONLY ones on his Dad’s side of the family that live any more than 30-45 minutes away. THIS, my friends, is the problem.

We aren’t getting any serious information. We’re getting 2-3 line text messages on most days and maybe a paragraph if whoever is sending the information feels it’s necessary. It’s absolutely maddening. TWH relays the information to me and I immediately have loads more questions THAT I CAN’T GET ANSWERS TO BECAUSE NO ONE IS GIVING US ANYTHING TO WORK WITH.

It causes me to have long, incoherent, muttered rants where I try to use every swear word I know at least once.

It also makes me frustrated for TWH who has resigned himself to this. Who feels as frustrated as I am but doesn’t think speaking up will change anything. Because “That’s just how things are”.

I’m sorry. That. Isn’t. Good. Enough. Not now. Not this time. Not for this.

We’re going to have to work on fixing the communication breakdown. From both sides. Because the status quo just isn’t going to be enough.

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I’m Scarring TB For Life

Okay, so. Awhile back, we yanked out the shower in TB’s bathroom so we could put in a new tub & tile surround. We got about halfway done tiling when we hit Cancertown with my Mother-in-Law. In the interim, TB has been showering in our bathroom.

Tonight it got to be around 8:00 and I looked at TB and said “Go get a shower” This is what went down:

Me: Go get a shower.

TB: Awwwww…. WHY do I have to go get a shower NOW?!?!

Me: Because I’d like to get a shower in about an hour and you take for-ev-er.

TB: No I don’t!!

Me: Yes you DO. There’s your pre-shower dump, your use-all-the-hot-water shower, and the time it takes for the hot water tank to refill. By 9:00, I’ll get to take a lukewarm shower. Now GO.

TWH: You’re so mean.

Me: HOW/WHY am I MEAN!?!?

TWH: You just ARE. I din’t know how or WHY…

TB: (in his room) *gripe, grumble, groan*

Me: Never mind Boy. Take as long as you want in the shower. I wanted to go to bed early because I was thinking your Dad might get lucky. He just shot that all to hell.

TWH: Omigod Woman!! You’re gonna scar TB for LIFE!! Poor kid….

Me: *Giggle. Snort. Snerk*

Maybe I can be a little TOO honest sometimes…..

MAYBE.

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A Break (And a Throwback Post)

Okay, so. As you all know. We got shoved into Cancertown this weekend. Totally against our will and looking kinda shell shocked. It was a long, Love-Filled, Fambly-filled, Sad, Scary, Laughter-filled, Exhausting weekend and we’re home for now. Whether it’s for a few days or until the weekend we don’t know yet.

I’m sitting in my living room with a stress pimple eating the side of my face, in sweats I picked up off the floor of my closet this morning watching Maroon 5 Takeover (Adam Levine is pretty) and thinking about what I have to say this morning.

It ain’t much. I’m exhausted and just trying to keep up with life at this point.

However, I DO have a Miss A story for you. It’s one of my favorite Miss A stories and I tell it A LOT.

Wanna hear it?? Here it goes….

I’m a swearer. I swear A LOT. Every swear word my kids know, they learned from me. Probably in the car going up & down I-12 in Baton Rouge. I swear, these folks drive with their heads wedged firmly up their asses.

Anyway, one day we’re all in the car going merrily on our way to who-knows-where. Miss A was about 3 at the time and was a sponge. She absorbed EVERYTHING. Y’know, like little kids do. So we’re tooling along when some asshat comes out of nowhere and changes lanes without looking or signalling causing TWH to slam on the brakes because the guy was trying to change lanes where we were currently driving. I yelled out “OH!! You SCHMUCK!!” as we continued on our way unscathed. From the backseat, Miss A pipes up: “Mommy!! You know what you forgot to call him??”

I cringed. I had NO idea what was about to come out of my sweet baby’s mouth. I said “No Baby. What??”

Miss A says “A JERK!!”

WHEW!! She said JERK!! I dodged a bullet there!! Relief washes over me. “Yes baby. He’s a Jerk.”

Miss A, however, is not QUITE finished with her assessment of the offensive drivers character. “Mommy!! You know what ELSE you forgot to call him??”

I’m thinking I’m in the clear at this point and am feeling pretty awesome. I ask innocently “No Doodle. What ELSE did I for get to call him??”

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…. Y’all. I was SO naieve.

Miss A replies with all the gusto a 3 year old sitting in her car seat clutching a teddy bear can muster “A FUCKING ASSHOLE!!”

I realize, at this point that I will NEVER be Mother of the Year. Partly because my 3 year old just said “Fuck”.

And partly because I was laughing so hard I got a cramp and had tears streaming down my face.

Mother of the Year is overrated anyways.

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Welcome to Cancertown

Okay, so. We came north on Thursday because the surgeon decided to go in & biopsy the mass they found close to my Mother-in-Laws pancreas on Friday. The surgery lasted about 3 hours and we completely took over the waiting room. After the surgery, the surgeon came out to talk to the family (all 17 or so of us) and said the words we were SO hoping not to hear.
“It’s Cancer”
Silence. Then a sudden, collective intake of breath as we all realize we didn’t get the outcome we were all hoping for. As the surgeon launched into explanations about “Spiral cells” and location I  glance around at family. My Sister-in-Law, my Father-in-Law, TWH, & TB. Trying to read their faces and see how they are processing everything. Then I had to call Miss A with the news. What little news I had, anyway.

We have arrived in Cancertown. We’re not unpacking. We’re not planning on staying.

Fuck Cancer.

Just Fuck It.

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