Sunday, April 29, 2012

R.I.P. Mommy

My original plan was NOT to make this a blog about menstruation; apparently this, though, is the life I live this week.

We really are a strange species. Us, fertile females, universally, bleed every month and yet somehow it is a taboo realm of discussion. Poop is funny. Periods are disgusting. I've always wondered why. I remember I read a book once about ancient menstruation huts, tents where bleeding women went and sat on straw while on their menses. I know that at the time they were considered "unclean" and the idea was to send them as far away as possible, until the immortal freaks stopped bleeding, but I still love the idea. In modern times, we could have better amenities in our huts, like well-oiled fanning men, chocolate fountains, heaps of nachos and pedicurists. We would be forced to sleep as much as possible and endure relaxation massages. We would not be expected to still go to work, care for families, take care of homes and gardens, sit in traffic and do all the things regular non-bleeding folks could do. I understand the makers of extra strength Motrin and Tampax might not like this plan, but they could put their resources towards hut manufacturing. The bottom line is, despite menstruation being a monthly reality since the dawn of civilization, people are ridiculously uncomfortable with it. Your monthly cycle does NOT just affect you. It creeps out men everywhere and causes psychological damage to children. This is why I support blood huts for everyone. Modern blood huts, though, because I don't sleep on straw.

It is true, menstruation causes psychological problems in children. I didn't realize this either until yesterday.

So, seriously, this is where I get to the point (if you've made it through this far, congrats, you get star!) My 4 year old's preschool teacher called me yesterday to discuss his BEHAVIOR. I felt myself tense. He is the most loving little guy, but he has the attention span of a gnat. He doesn't stand still, he constantly looks as if he needs to go potty, frequently he does, but usually he just says "my feet, they just wanna dance!" He goes through life pacing, twisting and turning, in search of legos and vampires. His mind is the same way, full of stories and excitement. He is childhood. He is also incredibly loving and too often misunderstood, especially by the adults who obviously prefer the quiet girl who sits criss cross applesauce and always keeps her hands on her lap. But his preschool teacher loves him. She's told me, she adores his little mind and the way he thinks about things constantly. She loves his roller coaster of attention deprived thoughts. So when she called me, I knew something was wrong.

And I have a hard time accepting constructive criticism when it comes to my kids. I, also, think they are perfect. So I prepared myself to be mature and understanding.

She told me he had been VERY unfocused. She couldn't bring him to the task at hand, no matter the technique she tried. He was combative and disinterested. She knew SOMETHING was going on. Finally, at the end of class she was able to get him to open up. "Something has been weighing heavy on his heart," she told me, "he told me you are very sick and GOING TO DIE." Suddenly, my momma bear defenses dissolved as did my mommy-is-going-to-put-you-in-the-longest-time-out-of-your-little-life plan. The poor kid thought I was dying! "Yes," she continued, "I spoke with the day care workers and they also said he has been telling everyone for the past 2 days that his mommy is very sick in the belly and she's probably dying."

"I am not dying." I told the teacher. "I've just been sick." And I laughed hysterically, full well knowing what was happening. Apparently, every time I said "I'm bleeding so hard" and "I'm bleeding to death" and "I just need to lay down", somebody was listening. When I curled up in bed with a migraine, my daughter hushed her little brother, "Shhhhh, mommy needs to rest, she's very, very sick." His little mind was spinning.

I picked him up for school and crouched down, looked in his eyes, clutched his chubby little cheeks and promised him I was OK. I told him I was all better, I wasn't sick and I wasn't dying.

"Momma, you've been bleeding on EVERYTHING. All you do is BLEED." He said, patting my face. He looked at me, seriously, "you are dying, but its OK." He smiled encouragingly, "It's OK because you are going to go Heaven! You are an angel mommy!"

So, I will spend the next 3 weeks convincing him I am well and going to live a long, long time. Long enough to grandmother his babies and need a scooter to get around. And then,  I will fall terribly ill again. It's the cycle. And I need a hut.

Either that or the child is psychic. I'm picking up some life insurance just in case.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Never Wake A Bleeding Bear

*Warning this post not only uses obscenities, it graphically depicts menstrual bleeding. Yes, I am talking about Aunt Flo. Get over it.

I think Mr. Perfect and I broke up again. We do this quite often, it lasts, on average, 4 hours and then we text each other. Neither of us have friends and we need each other. I think it's because we don't know how unmarried people fight. We are so used to wanting a divorce from other people for so long that when we bicker we just decide we're out. We go from being madly and insanely in love and licking each others' faces to suspiciously eyeing each other, looking for signs we are starting down the SAME OLD ROAD. I basically look for any sign that he is ignoring me and generally disinterested in a life with me and he glares waiting for me to turn into a high strung, judgmental bitch. Again, a 23 combined years of bad marital habits. And neither of us ARE GOING TO LET SOMEBODY TREAT US LIKE THAT AGAIN. Lol. Let me stress 96% of the time we are so dramatically in love we make people want to puke. And the other 4% of the time we are like last night.

*Warning to Mr. Perfect: One: You are going to be mad I called you Mr. Perfect. Two: You are going to be mad I'm blogging about you. Get over it.

Let me preface, this month I am bleeding like I am miscarrying triplet elephant fetuses. It's ridiculous. I had to go to the store and buy the big pads. I specifically looked at all the little drawings on the front and made sure I had the largest one. Overnight, super, with wings, complex irrigation channels and blue lines that resembled a computer motherboard. That bad.

Mr. P works midnights an hour and half away. Our time together is VERY scheduled and never during the week. So when my phone went off at 2 am on Wednesday morning, waking me from a dead sleep, I assumed he was butt dialing me as he drove home. When I heard my downstairs door open and heard my phone ring again, I thought only 'I am NOT waking up.' Then I realized, 'What the fuck!! Its a surprise ambush!' He walked into my room, apologizing to me, explaining he missed me and to please just go back to sleep. I could only think this:

1. I didn't flush the toilet. There could be sharks circling my apartment.
2. It was garbage day and I hadn't put new bags in the trash can so I KNEW I had 2 giant bloody children's mattress sized pads rolled up with toilet paper on my counter.
3. I had recently cleaned my car out by unloading its contents into garbage bags. I had, the night before, dumped said garbage bags out, all over the family room floor looking for a shoe.
4. I had 4 loads of dirty laundry in every corner of my house.
5. I was sweaty. Topless. Wearing a 16 inch sanitary napkin, inside ripped granny panties and two pairs of sweatpants over them, for "just in case". I had half of my hair in a dirty ponytail on the top of my head.
5. I hadn't brushed my teeth.

Now, my house is NEVER clean and Mr. P knows that. And I'm OK with some exposure. Even though he is a clean freak who makes his bed when he gets up to pee in the night. But there are some moments, for us normal people, where we wouldn't let the firemen in if there was a fire. And at that moment, my house was in that state. So I immediately reacted. I jumped up. I ran to the bathroom and began cleaning the blood off my toilet. I pushed the clothes into a pile. I changed into a 10 inch pad and took off one pair of pants. I crawled into bed with him and closed my eyes, hoping the tension that hung over us with suffocate me so that I would pass out and he would think I was sleeping. But all I could think was this:

1. I am going to leave for work at 7:30 and he is going to still sleep. And he is then going to wake up and be all alone in this house that he is absolutely not allowed to look at.
2. What if he tries to touch me?

I was panicked. And wide awake. So I did what I do when I wake up at 3 in the morning. I grabbed my phone, hoping a quick game of scramble with friends would clear my mind. I told the ceiling "I can't sleep!" and started round 2 of a game. It was the 2:00 minutes of word searching I hoped would turn off my brain. With 1:48 seconds to go, he started talking. I couldn't respond, because I am terribly competitive and just needed him to wait 1:48. I could sense he was getting up, but I was not willing to pause the game and lose the visual on the words I was finding. I could hear him going on and on about what a mistake it was to come and how he was sorry to wake me and how I should just go back to sleep. But I could NOT respond. I hadn't really thought about what I felt and I had :12 on the clock.

"If you leave then I'm going to be mad you came and be up worrying about you driving home, I think you should just wait." I sputtered out as my score was tallying. But it was too late. He had taken my bad breath as a sign I didn't love him and my panicked silence as rejection. He was already out the door. So now he had woken me up, walked out while I was talking and abandoned me, all in twenty minutes. Even my kids know NEVER TO WAKE ME, unless there is a fire, but only if there is a fire AND the house is clean. I was thinking one thing:


After all, a hero would turn around. I was pretty certain I wanted him to go home, but that wasn't the point. I hadn't had time to reach that decision. Which made me feel horrifically powerless. So I started texting him. He kept telling me to go to sleep. I kept telling him to stop telling me what to do. And so I did what I do when I am pissed, I started swearing PROFUSELY. For the next hour I became a vicious psychopath. We ended with him saying he was done. Actually, he said "I'm done." And I said, in my prophetically, over dramatic way, "The EGO IS a very powerful thing." And that was it.

But I don't hold myself accountable for anything I say between midnight and 7 am. Or when I'm on my period. Or the week leading up to my period. So I think we're really OK. I know this will all blow over. Because we are madly in love. RIGHT?!

Until he reads this post.... :)

My Introduction

At some point it just hit me, "the world is hilarious." I think it actually hit me at rock bottom, when all my expectations regarding marriage, motherhood, friendship, and family flew out my ear and landed in a puddle of someone else's tequila vomit. This world is hilarious.
It's the dark times, the imperfection, the middle of the night crazed and incoherent text wars, the screaming children in the backseat, the poop on the wall moments that crack me up. Imperfection unites!

I am thirty something (I'm not scared of telling you my age, I just don't want to update this every year, as I am very lazy). I am divorced. I am a momma to an 11 year old female genius child and a hysterical, cuddle bug, male 4 year old. (Crap, I'm going to have to update THEIR ages, so I might as well tell you I'm 33). They think I'm perfect or at least they lead me to believe they do, which is very nice of them. We are a helluva trio! I have a bf who I met on Facebook and after teasing him that he was Norman Rockwell perfect and made me want to puke for over 2 years, he somehow ended up writing sweet nothings on my bathroom mirror and leaving his underwear in my hamper. We now struggle with a combined 23 years of bad marital habits, an hour and 15 minute drive and 4 collective kids in our quest to live happily ever after. I work full-time (which I'm not allowed to talk about, because this IS the internet and I need my job). Those stories I share only with my BFF, the most hysterical, 6-month's sober, slightly raunchy, unimaginably loving mom I've found in this new rural town. I just asked her if I could discuss her online and she replied "Hellz Bellz!" So there goes her anonymity. In this town at least.

I write what I write with love and excitement. I approach the Universe like an excited puppy, I wanna play, I'll probably hump your leg, I might pee a little but REALLY, REALLY I just wanna love you and have you pet my head once in a while. Even virtually.