Caged Bird

Fluttering.
Stuttering.
Beating.
My wings strike the cage.
I fight.
Hard.
Against the entrapment
of my own making.

Why do I do this?
Fight for nothing.
Fight against an
immovable force.

I stop.
Give up.
What's the point?
Fatigue becomes
Concrete.
Done.

The fight ends.

The cage door opens.

But I can't move.

The irony.

Above

So many times, I try to rise above frustrating situations, to stay out of the fray. I look down my nose at the ridiculousness of it all and scorn those who are in the middle, battling it out. But through all of my I'm-so-above-this BS, I'm...

wishing
dreaming
wanting

to beat the shit out of somebody. I want to bloody noses and punch sneering faces. I wanna slap a mofo so hard that his ears ring.

My blood boils, my ire rises, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in protest of being held back and away from the fight.

I put on this facade of calm-cool-collected and yet, if you look closely, you'll see my jaw moving. And you'll realize that my teeth are grinding one another to dust, because it's taking every ounce of kinetic energy to quell the potential.

The potential for violence.

Speculum Speculations

Absolute truths realized during one's yearly "please put your feet in the stirrups" appointment:

• An afternoon without kids is still a wondrous thing even if it involves a Pap smear.
• Vaginal sonograms really, truly suck. Like, seriously? What kind of twisted, messed-up individual came up with this?
  
• When the phlebotomist says It's not veins that roll, it's people who miss, you realize that she's not just another blood sucker, but a sage whose opinion on the performance of other phlebotomists in one's past is really a commentary on life in general. Go ahead, use it in any form: It's not (nouns) that (verb), it's people who miss. Profound.
  
• That seeing Dr. Nezhat once a year just isn't enough. Because he's not just my doctor, he's a friend and the man who made our children possible. So, NATUI, Dr. Nezhat has mandated that I accompany you to all your future appointments. Mr. NATUI is no longer allowed to come. In fact, I'm thinking we just need to schedule our appointments for the same day each year, because the friends who get vaginal sonograms together stay together.
• The possibility of surgery*, during which three very uncomfortable-sounding things will be done to my womanly bits, has me grinning and cringing. Grinning because of the week or so off from kids. Cringing because, um, ouch?
  

Thank goodness those appointments only come once a year. More than that? Willies.

*Said surgery isn't for something life-threatening. It's to keep me healthy and our family at five and no more.

Behemoth

Our nine-year-old GE Profile refrigerator started it's long, slow walk toward its ultimate demise earlier this month. It all began with mushy chicken tenders from the freezer and ended with a room-temperature jug of milk just after Labor Day weekend. We shook our heads, emptied its shelves, and turned it off, planning its replacement from amongst the stunning collection at our local Lowe's. It sat forlorn and empty, devoid of everything except its collection of magnets and children's artwork. It was a simple fridge, nothing special. It cooled and froze. It dealt with having its two doors slammed, milk spilled, and vegetables spoiled. It held it all and took it all and one day, two weeks ago, decided it had had enough and left this world for...

Oh, Christ, who'm I kidding? It was a frakking refrigerator and we were giddy to have the chance to upgrade. Observe:


Samsung. 29 cubic feet. Let me say that again. Twenty. nine. cubic. feet. of storage. For milk. Frozen pizzas. Yogurt. CDC biological experiments that will someday cure cancer/HIV/the common cold/reality TV and not at all resembling liquid lettuce. Twenty-nine cubic feet of glory. Plus? Check out the numbered red circles:

1. Albert Einstein. Physicist. Genius. Fridge God.

2. Miss Britt people. Miss frakking Britt! On my fridge! Giving me the stink-eye every time I reach in for the left over Girl Scout cookies/birthday cake/ice cream. She's a goddess.

3. My bare feet. Don't stare too long or you might run screaming.

And remember that saying idle hands are the devil's workshop? Yeah. How 'bout A blank fridge is Satan's food storage. I believe that a lack of magnets is the work of Beelzebub.

The best part about the 29-cubic-feet of awesomeness now squatting in my kitchen?

The light. On the inside. It's not just white, it's like bluish-white. A heavenly salvation-white. And it doesn't just turn on. It's like a fade-on, getting brighter as the doors open. Check it.



It's the fridge built by Greys. And it's all mine. Quit drooling.

Ranty

There is a person I'm connected to on Facebook who decided to trash all men the other night with the following status update:

Why do most of the guys in my life have to suck so bad? I'm so glad A* didn't turn out to be a little boy.

Wow. What a great attitude. Let's just throw my four- and two-year-old sons to the wolves before they've even had a chance to date. Why don't we just go ahead and chuck Ty-man and Ian and John and Adam and ClintSteveMikeBrettJordanBob into that mix, great guys who don't deserve to be folded into the "guys suck" pile. That attitude? That one up there? That is such a cop out. Yep. Let's blame it all on the men. None of what happens to us ladies is our fault. Not at all. It's all the fault of our boyfriends/husbands/ex-husbands/lovers. Most definitely.

Now, I will admit that there are men out there who are just mean, nasty, heartless, and evil, that no matter what their mamas did they were going to be mean, nasty, heartless, and evil. But other than that small handful? I call total, complete, and utter bullshit. If a man has never been taught how to properly treat a woman, then he's never going to get it right. And if you, dear female Facebook user, keep dating and marrying and surrounding yourself with said loser men, then some of the blame lies with you. How does the old saying go... fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me? So, dear Facebook friend, instead of whining about the men in your life being rotten and expressing your joy that your daughter isn't male? Why don't you instead say, Wow, I have issues and I keep seeking out the wrong men. I've been married and divorced twice in my short 35 years and I'm obviously doing something wrong. Rather than seek out those male personalities that I consistently look for and who constantly hurt me for one reason or another, why don't I look for someone different who might actually be good for me? And if you come to that conclusion, dear one? Then maybe there will be a chance for you to be happy and for your daughter to not make the same mistakes as you.

And maybe you'll quit lumping my toddler sons, and every other male I love and cherish, into the wrongs committed on you by men you should have never sought out after learning what to avoid the first time.

*Whew.*

Now, I'll just step off my soap box and go soak in some Calgon.

*A would be her toddler daughter.

Worn Out Math

5 hours of sleep Wednesday night
+ 2 fussy kids during said Wednesday night
+ 3 pickup truck loads of my Mom's stuff I moved yesterday morning
+ gazillion times I ran up and down the stairs of Mom's apartment to move said stuff
+ 2 kids to doctor for 4-year well visits and vaccines yesterday afternoon
+ 1 kid to doctor for flu vaccine
+ 2 tired, frazzled parents also needing flu vaccines
+ 3 hours in the doctor's office
- 6 combined hours the kids didn't nap due to being in said doctor's office
+ 13 vaccinations total between all five of us (5 flu, 2 polio, 2 chickenpox, 2 DTP, 2 MMR)

All raised to the n^th power where n = the number of times said kids fussed due to lack of sleep and sore injection sites.

Equals no frappin' blog post.

Have a good weekend, fellow citizens of the PRB.

No, They Are Not Triplets

For the twins' first birthday, Teri gave me a t-shirt with the title Yes, They Are Twins displaying sarcastic bullet points answering the annoying, personal questions people ask when they see a mother with twins.

Now, with these three being so close in age, I've come up with a new bullet list. It's too long for a t-shirt, but I'm thinking of printing up a brochure and handing it out when anyone asks Are they triplets?

• No, my children are not triplets, but two of them are twins and the other is 20 months younger than the twins.
  

• Irish triplets? Do you even know the history of the term Irish triplets? Because you just basically called me stupid, unable to plan, and a sex fiend. Gee. Thanks.*

• I'll give you $100 if you guess which ones are the twins.

• OK. I won't give you anything because you just called me a ho in a roundabout way and anyway you're going to guess that the boys are twins and you're wrong. It's my taller son and my daughter.

• Yes. Yes. The twins are identical. My daughter was born a boy, but the circumcision went pear-shaped and we decided to raise him as a her. Lucky for us, he/she likes pink.

• Yes, I was being sarcastic again. Boy/girl twins cannot be identical. It's a biological impossibility. Kind of like you walking upright.

• Why are you asking how far apart they were? How far apart were your bowel movements this week? Oh, that's personal? Well, then don't ask about how quickly humans came out of my vagina and I won't ask you about the regularity of your colon.

• What the hell are artificial twins? Why would you ask that? Are you saying my twins are imaginary? That all of this is an illusion? Wow. I've been screwed. Oh, you wanted to know if I got pregnant through in-vitro or some other method. Did you have a bowel movement today via ex-lax or sweet potatoes? WHAT?!?
  

• Oh, sure. I have all the time in the world. Please, do tell me about your cousin's-brother's-wife's-sister's-nephew's twin girls. Or those triplets you once saw at Wal-Mart that were in their 80s and all wearing square dance dresses during their day out from the convalescent home. I have all day. No, I don't need to get home in 20 minutes to cook dinner. Not at all.

• Yes, my hands are full. No, of course you aren't the 9-millionth person to say that to me. Thanks for the reminder.

And that is my public service announcement for the day. You're welcome.

*My mother-in-law calls her grandkids Irish triplets and I let her because she's family and she's cute when she does it.

Four Years Ago Today

Four years and four days ago today, while pregnant with you, Miss-Miss and Bubba, I was told my blood pressure was dangerously high. I was immediately placed in the hospital for observation.

Four years ago today, my OB told me he was inducing labor because my blood pressure wasn't coming down and my body and your bodies were going haywire. And so, my sweet ones, our adventures began.


Four years ago today, at 4:12 PM, you were born, Miss-Miss. You were impatient. Four hours after being administered pitocin, my wussy self begged for an epidural and as I was given said epidural, you decided you'd had enough. You, my sweet girl, wanted to make a grand entrance. After ten minutes of trying to convince the nurses that My daughter is coming out! and said nurses scoffing It's your first pregnancy. Your daughter is not coming out. and finally checking just to shut me up they declared She's at 10 cm! and all Hell broke loose. Before I could blink and take a deep breath, both of your grandmothers and friends were replaced with your Papa, two warming tables, two neonatologists, more nurses than I could count, my OB, and a mid-wife. Suddenly, there you were. All four pounds, six ounces of you. My beautiful daughter.


As I was looking across the room at my sweet girl, I was vaguely aware of my OB saying OK, Heather, I'm going to reach in and get Bubba's foot. Yeah. Reach in. That made me flinch, too, even through the epidural. And before either of us knew what was happening, I contracted and instead of my OB grabbing your foot, he grabbed your scrotum. Bubba, honey, that was in no way planned. Not an auspicious beginning at 4:16 PM. No wonder all four pounds and 10 ounces of you squalled. My handsome son.


I had just washed my hair that morning, the first time in four days. The magnesium sulfate made me feverish and hot and I had already cried over the craziness and wonderment of meeting the two of you for the first time. So my first picture with you both leaves me looking like the Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus.


Two days later, you were both still in the NICU, too tiny to eat on your own. I was still on the magnesium sulfate (read: worst muscle relaxant EVER) and was so loopy, that I decided to name my ever-present I.V. pump "George." I hadn't been able to hold you since your births (because the magnesium made me so weak the doctors worried I would drop you) and I was itching to get my hands on you.


Your poor Papa was exhausted. He was trying to take care of me and spend as much time as possible with the two of you. He visited the NICU whenever he could, changing your diapers, feeding and burping you. Snuggling you. All the things I couldn't do.


Finally, on that second day, I was able to hold you both. Not just stroke your heads. I could finally cuddle you. Except I was still so tired and weak.


Three days after your births, I was discharged, but you were going to stay in the hospital for another 17 days, getting bigger and learning how to eat and breathe simultaneously while I recovered and gained strength. Every day, I visited you. I was so worried that if I missed a day, you would forget what I smelled like, what I sounded like, that we wouldn't bond.


And for 20 days, you snuggled each other, slept, ate, grew, and learned how to suck down eight bottles of formula each day.


And three years and 345 days ago, you came home.


And our house of two became a home of four.


And here we are. Four years later. Miss-Miss, you're a beautiful young lady, full of life, laughter, and curls. Bubba, you're such a handsome little boy who makes me laugh and gives me unsolicited hugs. And with J-man, we're a party of five.


Happy 4th Birthday, my sweet twins! These four years have been awesome and incredible and I can't wait to see what the future holds for us!

So Now I'm an Anthropologist

Strip malls are a microcosm of American life. Seriously. You show me a strip mall and the stores contained within it and I can tell you what the people living in the immediate vicinity do for a living, what they're like, how they vote, etc. If your strip mall has a dry cleaners, a fast food store, and a 24-hour pharmacy then your area consists of white collar suburbanites.

Damn, I'm good. Right?

And then there's this strip mall just two miles from my house:

(Embiggen to see the store signs. I'll wait.)

Essentially, it's a tow company, tattoo shop, pawn shop, and bridal/formal wear.

To me, this screams Dang! My Oldsmobile Cutlass done quit on me again! I gotta get it towed! Wait, while I'm here, I'll just stop into the tat shop and get some ink. Maybe I'll get my girl's name on my one o' my guns! And speakin' of guns, I gotta get in that pawn shop and pick me up a Remington. Wal-Mart's too pricey and huntin' season's around the corner. And since I got my girl inked on my arm, I guess it's time for us to make Junior a legal member of the family. I'll tell Sugar Booger to get down here and pick her out a weddin' dress. Hell, I think we can swing it if it ain't more than $30.

Yep, when I see this strip mall ten times a week during my trips to and from the twins' school, I picture rednecks, with old, tired American cars, pawning anything and everything they own to get inked and get hitched.

Sometimes my neighbors scare me.

Punk

Wednesday night was crazy, ya'll. After helping me pick the twins up from school, J-man declared that he had had it with the boring suburban scene and was ready for action. Next thing I knew, we were on a plane headed for Cali. J (what he declared as his new blog handle, yo) was on the phone with Clooney, Jay-Z, Diddy, J-Lo, Jennifer Aniston, and Brangelina (he has a crush on Shiloh), whom he called his "peeps", getting a party together. As soon as we got off the plane, we were in a limo to the Hyde Lounge. Before I fully realized what was going on, J roped off a corner of the Hyde for his V.I.P. party and the alcohol was flowing like Niagara. Brangelina showed up; he was chugging beers left and right and she was scowling at J because J was going on and on about Shiloh this and Shiloh that and it's bad enough when a teenager goes after your little girl but when a Cristal-swilling toddler is ogling your sweet princess, well, break out the shotgun. Then Diddy came in but he left because J was upstaging him. J-Lo got offended when J kept patting her butt and Jay-Z just looked bored. Then Clooney walked in with Paris Hilton, acting like he owned the place and gave Jennifer Aniston attitude. Well, J wasn't having any of it. Before I could make it through my second Cosmo, Clooney had J by the collar of his Lightning McQueen shirt and had jammed his face into the bar, forehead first. J was trying to kick him in the balls, Clooney let go, and J swung around, punched him in the stomach, and kneed him in the nuts. I was out of my chair, trying to push J and Clooney apart and Paris jumped over and scratched her nails down J's nose. I was pissed. I grabbed a handful of her hair, yanked her head back, and punched her in the boobs. Before she could react, J pushed me out of the club and the whole place erupted. Fights broke out and the cops were crawling all over the place. We barely got out before they dragged J off in handcuffs. By the time we got home I was worn out and J was back to asking for apple juice and Diego and whining about his firetruck. How can I prove all this was true? See for yourself.



Well, OK. Maybe none of it is true. But didn't that story sound better than Hey! My kid forehead-planted himself in the neighbor's driveway! Where's the Neosporin?

Thought so.

Dialog, Part 26

Ed. Note: DragonCon can be a wild and crazy place. Not only do you have Stormtroopers running around willy-nilly, there are superheros with guts, fairies with attitudes, wanna-be hobbits, and just a shit-ton of sci-fi/fantasy nerds and geeks all out for a good time. At night, the parties get cranking and here are a couple texts I exchanged with my sweet Stef, a fellow ghost hunter, out having a great time in the DragonCon melee. She wrote this post, people. She is teh funneh!

Stef: Caccacrazy!

Me: How many drinks have you had?

Stef: Yes

Stef: I mean idk - 5 vodka crans? A whole bottle of mojitos

Me: OMFG! How are you still standing?

Stef: Who knows

Stef: But I can still knock a bitch out. I Gots my boots on

Stef: Get to try walking soon! Wish ne luck

Two days later...

Stef: We went to a rainbow flag gay party and a WoW* party and Brett vag and cock blocked me twice! WTF!

* World of Warcraft for all you uneducated boobs.

F*ck It.

I'm pissed that some guy in the Chick-Fil-A parking lot was an ass to me over nothing.

I'm pissed that there are people out there who whine and moan about DEATH PANELS! DEATH PANELS! THE GOVERNMENT IS GOING TO KILL OLD PEOPLE!, who would gladly put their 18-year-old senile cat out of its misery, but when they're confronted with my husband's step-grandfather who had no mind left in his head and who slowly starved/dehydrated to death in a hospice, that's just fine and justified and a dignified way to die. Wow. Dignified. Yeah. The last time I checked my facts, starvation and dehydration are actually painful, no matter the state of your prefrontal cortex, and in no way dignified. I call that torture. God forbid we, as a human race, make his or anyone else's passing less, ahem, painful with a few extra cc's of opiates. But, by all means, give the magic injection to Sparky the family Labrador who can no longer walk and isn't sentient.

Ahem.

I'm pissed that I can't get 9974-AKE out of my head over a year later.

I'm pissed that some people put their own dreams and desires ahead of those of their family and children.

I'm pissed that I get ahead in one area of my life and another area goes to the wayside.

I'm pissed that a couple of people bad-mouthed my peeps to some well-known TV personalities and said personalities were, let's say, less-than-friendly to said peeps at the local sci-fi convention over the past weekend. What is this, high school? Wow, because I actually thought this was a trying-to-be-serious field of research, not the cafeteria.

I'm pissed that a family member whom I adore and cherish has had her heart broken and I can't do a damned thing about it.

I'm pissed that some people read blogs and can't abide by the mantra If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. They would rather spew hatred and nastiness on someone's heartfelt words instead of taking care of their own house.

I'm pissed that it's that time of the month.

I'm pissed that I obsess about every. little. thing, all the time, and that the tiniest of issues will get me down. Constantly. And that I can't just say Fuck it.

And Here's To You, MAJ Livingston.

Being an only child is generally full of suckage. You're the only one in the house who gets blamed for the broken lamp, people snidely remark Must be nice to be spoiled rotten! when, duh, you're the only kid in the house, of course you're going to get all the toys and attention, and then there's that whole playing Barbies or GI Joe by yourself that is never a good time. But the one great part about being an only child is that when you're older, you get to hand-pick your siblings.

The awesome thing about Ian, my brother from another mother, is that we disagree about everything. We have been known to have over-the-table shouting matches about abortion/gays in the military/Islamic extremism/gay marriage/religion/foie gras*, you name it, we holler at each other about it. But we also have a deep, abiding love and admiration for one another, for what we've each gone through with our families, our marriages, and our children. We've stood by each other through the really dark times and we always agree on sci-fi, Quentin Tarantino, Monty Python, and dark humor. The laughter and silliness comes easily to us and even though, at the end of the day, we can't agree on God's influence or lack thereof in our lives, we still love each other like brother and sister.

Thanks for the great visit this weekend, bro. Glad you're back in the states and I've missed you, Vonda, and your sweet girls, terribly!

*Actually, we've never disagreed about foie gras, but we did once scream at each other about Native Americans. Yeah. It was bad.

Playing Favorites, Part 3

You are my favorite J-man because...

• You mooch my breakfast every morning.
• You have the cheesiest grin.
• You call out for me if I leave the room.
• You cuddle me every night before bed.
• You squall like the dickens when getting your hair cut.
• You have the cutest feet.
• You can do whatever your brother and sister do, only better.
• You can drive a toy firetruck like nobody's business.
• You love to watch the iPod when the Cars soundtrack is playing.
  
• You are my youngest son.

Thanks, everybody, for reading why each of my kids are my favorites!

Playing Favorites, Part 2

You are my favorite Bubba because...

• You love to cuddle.
• You are so quiet and concentrate so intensely when you play.
• You watch space shuttle launches and cry when its over.
• You love chocolate as much as I do.
• You know the difference between a Stingray and a regular Corvette.
• You scream the loudest of anyone when you are hurt.
• You squeal and giggle when pretend-tickled. From across the room.
  
• You love the thrill of going fast.
• You answer Pretty good! when asked How are you?.
  
• You are my oldest son.

Tomorrow is J-man's turn and if you missed it, see why Miss-Miss is also my favorite.

Playing Favorites, Part 1

You are my favorite Miss-Miss because...

• You are so beautiful on the inside and out.
• You have the most amazing curly hair!
• You read. All the time. To me, to your brothers, to everyone. Even to your stuffed animals.
• You are such a little mother to your brothers.
  
• You try so hard to color inside the lines.
• You love dresses and prefer them over pants or shorts.
• You love the little things. Little books, little animal figures, little teddy bears, little anything.
• You twirl. Everywhere.
• You concentrate when you unwrap a Hershey's Kiss, as if your life depended on it.
• You are my daughter.

Make sure you check back the next couple of days to find out why Bubba and J-man are also my favorites!