Mother's Birth Day

Seven years ago today, I became a mother for the third time, which was amazing because just three short years before, I was convinced I would NEVER be a mother. Here, I tell J-man about the day he was born. Thanks, Britt!

Happy birthday to my sweet, crazy boy! I love you and I love that every few years we share a special day.

Eight

Eight years ago, I was a bewildered, scared brand-new mother. My family had lurched from two individuals to a family of four. In math terms, that's two-squared. In psychological terms that's too-scared.

I briefly held my twins, just a few scant minutes, and then they were taken to the NICU. Weighing in at just 4 lbs. 6 oz. (Amelia) and 4 lbs. 10 oz (Heath), my sweet twins were tiny and not yet ready to go home. It took them 20 days to gain weight and learn how to take in eight bottles a day. Even then, when given the OK to come home, they were still wearing preemie clothes and diapers.

Amelia at just 21 hours old.

Sweet Heath, also 21 hours old.

During those 20 days, I was panicked that I wasn't spending enough time with them. I had convinced myself that just a two-hour daily visit wasn't enough and I knew that they wouldn't recognize me, my voice, or my scent. I had brainwashed myself into thinking that these precious twins would come home and not want me.

OK, seriously? Somebody should have knocked me over the head and told my inner drama queen to shut the hell up. Because these are the sweetest, most loveable kids and those 20 days? Smaller than a blip in the grand scheme of their lives.

Heath, P., Amelia, B., and Jarrod. PARTY TIME!

They play hard, love fully, laugh loudly, and drive us crazy. But we wouldn't have it any other way.

We love you, Heath and Amelia! And, no, I'm not at all freaking out how fast these eight years have flown by and that it's only another eight years until you're both driving. Nope, I'm cool.

(Please? Someone? Get me a drink!)

Niobium*

I've been listening to a lot of Shawn Mullins lately. To many of you, Shawn Mullins was a one-hit-wonder, spawned in the North Georgia mountains and chasing the tails of the Indigo Girls and R.E.M. But for me, he was more than that. He was the voice of my college and 20-something years. When I was a freshman at North Georgia College, he was a senior and playing gigs at the bar across the street from our campus. I bought his cassette tape, "Everchanging World" in the college bookstore and played it until it wore out (my fellow Lewis Hall dorm mates were probably tired of listening to it). During my sophomore year, he released his first CD, "Better Days" and I still dust it off and listen to it when the mood strikes.

For the past month, Shawn's many albums have been on repeat in my car, my iPod, and in my head when I'm trying to fall asleep. I don't think it's that I'm trying to recapture 20-years-ago but rather trying to understand me 20 years ago. How 20-year-old me slowly morphed into 41-year-old me.

(I have to make an admission here. A quick aside. We all talk about our lives being "short" and "blink of an eye" is thrown around. Sometimes, though, I feel like these 41 years have taken forever to pass by.)

This song, from Shawn's album that included the one-hit "Lullaby", is one of my favorites. It's called "Twin Rocks, Oregon." Just take five minutes and listen. It's totally SFW:


The message of this song, about finding yourself, has been at the forefront of my mind for the last month. I've been aware of my mortality for longer than I can remember, but it's only since having kids (and last month's health scare) that I'm now hyper aware of my eventual end. Will my children be OK without me? Will they mourn me and be at my wake? Will they take the lessons I've taught them and teach their own children? Will the world still turn and the sun still rise and set?

Yes. Of course... I hope.

I don't know the definite answers. I'm never meant to know. But, I do know this. When I finally leave this earthly plane, my children will know that I was comfortable in my own skin. They will know that after all those years, I finally understand who I am and that I really like me. All of my experiences have led me to this point, this dot on my timeline, and I'm happy here. Loving Tyler Dobson, loving three amazing little kids that came from me, being a band nerd, standing up to an adult bully, studying physics, leaving West Virginia, wanting to write erotic fiction, chasing ghosts, all of it. I. Am. Content. And that frees me to no end.

There's a line in the song, "ain't it a blessin' to do what you want to do" that resonates, except I'm going to change it up a bit.

Ain't it a blessin' to be who you want to be?

It is. It truly is.

Today, I'm 41. When I look in the mirror, I see a tired yet beautiful woman who is ready to rock this planet for at least another half-century. And when that day comes, I'm sure I will listen to more Shawn Mullins, the voice of my youth, think of how I got there, and remember that being me is pretty fucking amazing. Ain't that a blessin'?

*For those of you who wish to know, niobium is a chemical element, symbol Nb. It's a metal that can be found in the superconducting magnets of MRI scanners. And? It's atomic weight is 41. Insert nerd smiley face here.

I'm Married To An Older Man

For two whole days, I'll be married to an older man.

I have always taken this yearly, 48-hour opportunity to make jokes like, "Hey, sweetie! Where's your cane?" and "It's so nice to be the trophy wife!" as well as, "Ah, yes, stealing the kids' trust funds one birthday at a time!"

The Ty-man doesn't much appreciate this. But, that's OK. He gets back at me starting at hour 49 when I finally join him in old age and he makes jokes about "Trading you in for two twenty-year-olds."

Ahem.

Maybe this year I'll keep my mouth shut.

Happy 41st birthday to the most incredible man I've ever known! I love you and always will.

Even when you DO finally need that cane.

Happy 7th Birthday Bubba and Miss-Miss!

Today, my dear sweet twins turn seven. For a less-abbreviated story that is tl;dr, click here.

If you would like to actually see the newly-minted 7-year-olds in action, with a special appearance by J-man and a photobomb courtesy of Ty-man, then look no further.

Happy Birthday, sweet twins! Love you both with all my heart!

Dialog, Part 31

OR

YEP, IT'S MY 39th BIRTHDAY

Miss-Miss: Let's play I-Spy! OK. I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing purple!

Me: Hmmmm, the pillow?

Miss-Miss: NO! The sunroom!

Me: OK. My turn. I spy, with my little eye, something pink.

Miss-Miss: My shirt! *Giggling* I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing gray!

Me: *Puzzled* Huh. OK. *Looking around.* The TV?

Miss-Miss: NO! Your hair!

Me: *Facepalm*

Yeah, I'm getting older. As of this moment, I have entered the final year of my 30s. There are only 365 more days left to be as close to "Young and Hip" as I'll ever be. All too soon, I'll be knocking on the door marked "Old Fart."

Being on this cusp is weird. There's a constant inner monologue going on that I, at times, wish would shut the fuck up. Moments when my brain screams Run that extra mile, woman! It's good for you! and my knees and hips reply Oh, sure. Go right ahead, honey. But we'll make sure you pay for it all next week. My brain and body seem to be going their separate ways, constantly. Like, for example, my brain screams Oh! YEAH! Feel that rhythm! Dance, baby! and my ears scream Turn that crap down! Do you think the entire neighborhood wants to listen to that garbage? I swear, it's like I'm a psychic medium but the only spirit I'm channeling is my father. And finally, there are those moments of watching the neighborhood kids play kickball in our cul-de-sac, using our driveway as home plate, when I think Oh, looks like they're having a great time! and yet I find myself clamping my hand over my mouth because all it wants to shout is Get off my lawn you pesky, good-fer-nuthin' kids!

I don't get it, this dichotomy of getting old. My brain is convinced, absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I'm 19*. But I know when others look at me, especially those who truly are 19, that I'm not. I see it in the mirror when I look at those gray hairs that so prominently stand out to Miss-Miss, and I feel it when I do run that extra mile.

I don't like it. But, I'm going to fight it, every damned step of the way. I will not age gracefully. I will age fighting.


So, happy birthday to me, dammit, and my ability to be 39 in body, but 19 in spirit!

* I would have to say that looking back at all of my ages, 19 was my favorite. I was out of the house, away from the parents, in college, had a bunch of friends, and was having the time of my life, all still with a happy view of the world. Yeah, 19 was the best.

The Ty-man He is the 39

This morning the Ty-man awoke to the final year of his 30s. Wearing his "Don't Mess With Texas" t-shirt and looking generally disgusted to not be sleeping in on the anniversary of his birth, he smiled as each of our kids wished him very enthusiastic happy birthday wishes. I'm sure when he blows out his candles later today, he'll be dreaming of a conservative America full of shining, happy people. That or a 2012 Corvette C7.

For two whole days, I'm married to an older man. A slightly older disgruntled, yet content, Republican who was recently named the President of his family's company.

Ruffles and Flourishes, people, with a little Hail to the Chief mixed in for good measure.

Happy 39th birthday, my love!

Three Years Ago Today

Dear J-man,

Did you know that you were born three years ago today? It all started four days after your Bubba's and Esha's first birthdays when I stood in the kitchen, starring down the barrels of three (count 'em, three) positive pregnancy tests. I couldn't believe it, but the proof was staring me in the face. My body, my screwed-up, wtf-do-you-mean-I'm-supposed-to-ovulate? body had finally figured out this whole cycle thing all on its own and you came into being.

For those first few months, I was plenty-nauseous and annoyed by the whole affair. How the heck was I supposed to raise twin one-year-olds and keep house if all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and moan? But then? Then, you moved. And I felt you. And my heart sang.

Our doctor decided to induce our labor two weeks early since my blood pressure was elevated. I must say, I was so happy to meet you earlier than expected. The hospital called very early on Friday morning, May 11, 2007, and informed us they were ready. The pitocin was administered, my epidural was good to go, and I waited. Lucky for me, there was a Roseanne marathon showing on a local channel. As I settled in for a several-hour stretch, I shifted in bed and realized that even through the epidural, something felt different. I called the nurses' station, they checked your progress, and just three hours after the start of our journey, you were there, ready to make your entrance.

When I first saw you, I thought you a mix of your Bubba and Esha. I saw a little of my father in your face and you were just precious. At first, I didn't want to hold you too much because I didn't want to spoil you, but by the time we came home two days later, I gave in. You were too cute not to cuddle 24/7 and to this day, you're a cuddler.

Dear J-man, you're a sweet boy who is constantly off the hook. You talk non-stop, chase after your Bubba and Esha, and drive them crazy. You also love them unconditionally and make all of us laugh until we gasp and snort.

I love you. Happy third birthday little man!

There's a Violet On My Toilet

The toilet in our master bathroom died a slow, painful death a couple of months ago. It was just before Christmas when I found myself making an executive decision regarding our home. Typically, home repair dialog in the CofaCMGD household goes something like this:

Me: Honey, I don't think Appliance X is working.
Ty-man: OK.
Me: *Blink, blink*
Next day...
Me: Ty, Appliance X is still broken. It's definitely dead.
Ty-man: Examining said appliance. Huh, I think you're right. Walks away.
Me: *Blink, blink*
Next, next day...
Me: Um, hon? Appliance X...
Ty-man: Done. Finished. Already taken care of. Ordered a new one/called a repair company.
Me: Wow. Awesome. *Blink* Cool.

This time was completely different. Ty-man was in the middle of the 9th circle of Hell writing his company's proposal and didn't have time for broken toilets. Before I could even get the sentence Hon, I'm pretty sure our toilet is broken out of my mouth, Ty was all Yeah, um, can't deal with that right now. You go take care of it.

Much blinking ensued.

So, off I went to Lowe's with this in mind:


I walked right in, went up to the toilet section, looked at the guy and said, I want that Kohler toilet from the commercial where the guy is trying to flush an African violet down his toilet because there's a cute plumber next door who he wants to come over to his house and nothing is clogging it because it's a Kohler. Not even dog food. That one. That's what I want. Because I'm tired of sitting on the toilet, doing my business, flushing before even wiping, and the damn thing clogs up. I mean, what the Hell? I can't even empty my colon without breaking out the plunger? How awkward is that? Like I enjoy unclogging a toilet with my undies at my ankles, butt hanging out, all because Al Gore wants to save the frakking planet. Please. I just want my toilet to flush my poop.

Yeah. The Lowe's guy blinked a lot before he gave me a slow Oooookay and showed me my options.

I got my Kohler. And it flushes every time with no clogging.

And my wonderful neighbor/ex-HOA prez/confidante presented me with an African violet for my birthday, just so I could flush it down my new Kohler toilet.

That, people, is love.

I might wait until it's dead, though, because I will inevitably kill it and it's too pretty right now to flush. But when I do, I will certainly post the video here.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Here is a video my mom and I made two years ago. In it, she tells the story about the day I was born. Enjoy!



If you're reading this post on Facebook, click here to see the video.

Happy Birthday, Ty-man!

Today the Ty-man, the apple of my eye, turns 38.


He's a Jedi Knight at heart:


An admirer of Superman:


And is staunchly Team Jacob:


Happy Birthday to the most amazing man I know and to the best husband in the world! I love you. Very much.

So go! Right now! Leave him some love in the comments or send him birthday wishes (or LolCats) here.

Many thanks to PhotoFunia for the awesome pics.

Toni the Tiger Has a Birthday

This is my amazing, wonderful, beautiful friend Toni:


Toni and I have known each other for 15 years. We were college roommates and sorority sisters and we are dear friends. We've traveled many places together - even Egypt:


Two years ago, Toni pronounced that she would only turn 40 in the Caribbean and I then pronounced that, dammit, I would be there with her because I wanted her to be surrounded by friends on that big day.

Yesterday, Toni turned 40 in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, and I wasn't with her. I missed her wedding almost three years ago when J-man was born. But she was there at the hospital, wearing her beautiful Aunt Toni smile:


I hate like hell that I wasn't with her yesterday. I wanted to remind her, all day, that she's the most beautiful 40-year-old woman I know. Inside and out, she's amazing, and that no matter her age, she'll always be beautiful and amazing. Because she is. Simple as that. Even though she's in Mexico right now with her wonderful husband who is saying those same things to her, I wanted her to hear it from a friend, another woman.

Me.



I know that barring any craziness in her life, we'll all be in Hawai'i (crossing fingers) celebrating my and the Ty-man's 40th birthdays in two years.

And I know that in 10 years, we'll all be in Egypt, mine and Toni's favorite place among all our travels, to celebrate Toni's 50th birthday.

Because I promised. And dammit, I'm not missing another one.

Happy birthday, Toni! I love you, miss you, and hope this birthday was special!

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!

On Turning 2

It's a pretty big step, going from babyhood to toddlerhood. You've had to learn how to crawl, walk, run, smile, laugh, and eat Cheerios and strawberries and chocolate chip cookies. You've had to navigate siblings, car seats, colds, and pediatricians. And J-man? You've done it with style!



Happy 2nd birthday, little man! I love you!

Slouching Towards 40*

37.

There's just something unsettling about this number of mine, this number that will be attached to me for the next year like toddler snot stuck to my corduroys. I like symmetry and in being a big fan of even numbers, 37 is so blatantly odd that it's prime. And that freaks me out.

And it's also the first number that the Ty-man has expressed trepidation over regarding his age. And, I've got to tell you, when the Ty-man gets squirrely, I get nervous.

Up to now, the numbers representing my age have never given me pause. There's been the usual I'm 16! Let's total the car! I'm 18! Let's elect a President! I'm 21! Let's get trashed! Other than those milestones, I'm just typically Meh about the whole thing. It's just a number, for Chrissakes. Right?

RIGHT?!?

But this number? Is turning my muscles into whimpy pieces of shit that now take three days to recover from over-exertion rather than two. It's a number that's stealing IQ points one by one. It's a number that's making me frown at teenagers and nod at my mother. And it's a number that until a few days ago was just a number and not an age.

Most of my adult years, I've walked around thinking, Dude, there's no way I'm 22/30/37. I remember 22/30/37-year-olds when I was a kid and they didn't act the way I'm acting now. They acted like grown-ups. I'm not a grown-up! and I wonder where the heck the last 37 years have gone. Seriously! Somebody tell me that the 1972 on my birth certificate is just a joke because it doesn't feel like it's been that long to me. And I look at the average life-expectancy for American women and have a hard time believing that in just three short years, I will be at the half-way mark.

Wow.

Now that I've totally depressed myself, I realize that with these 37 years has come knowledge. I've learned from my vast mistakes. I've learned that children require infinite quantities of patience. I've learned that I'm not perfect, never will be, and need to get over it. I've learned that the universe doesn't revolve around me (and that's a good thing!).

And I've learned about love. In it's many forms. And that that is more important than anything else.

So, Happy Birthday To Me! Here's to more wisdom, more fun, more patience, and less acting like my age!

Care to join?

*Yes, I know. There's a blog that uses this as it's title. I can't help it if she saw into the future and stole the title of this post for her blog. Some people...

The Ty-Man Turns 37

Happy Birthday to the man who's bringing back sexy in a golf shirt.

Happy Birthday to the man who wants to be Captain Kirk/T.J. Hooker/Denny Crane when he grows up.

Happy Birthday to the man who knows more about scuba diving than any non-diver I know.

Happy Birthday to the man who is more Republican than Sean Hannity.

Happy Birthday to the man who cried just a little when Khan Noonien Singh died last month.

Happy Birthday to the man who missed his calling as an 18th century British Navy Admiral.

Happy 37th Birthday to my Ty-man!

(Please make sure you leave him some birthday wishes in the comments. Or e-mail him some porn here.)

37?!?

In three days, I will be 37 years old. And every time I think of the number 37, I think of this clip from the movie Clerks:



And if you have a minute? Pop on over here to MommyCosm. I'm guest posting today while Ashlie is off getting a tan in Aruba. Bitch.

My Dad

Not only was yesterday Fathers' Day, but it was also my dad's birthday. Had he lived, yesterday would have been his 77th birthday. So, in honor of his birthday (I know, I know. A day late and a dollar short. Well, maybe not a dollar. More like 62 cents.), I have the best Dad story to share with you. (Sorry about not having an accompanying picture - I know there is one, but it's at Mom's apartment and I'm too danged lazy to look for it!)

My father had a pair of swimming trunks emblazoned with Campbells' Pork 'n Beans labels. Oh, yes. All you ladies are sweating out there, I can tell. He proudly wore said trunks every year during our beach trip just to get laughs. And with his baby/pot belly? He was a sexy beast, I tell you.

He also had a pair of large, clown sunglasses. He and cousin Mike made two sets of score cards, numbered one through ten. Mike, a very tall and very red-headed man (with orangutan orange-red hair strewn all over his chest), would sit at one end of our strip of beach and my dad would sit at the other end in his Pork 'n Beans trunks and over-sized sunglasses. And, you guessed it, they would score the women who walked by them. Oh, yes, my mother allowed this, as did Mike's wife, and the rest of the family. We all just attempted to ignore the train wreck going on at the tide line while us kids made sand castles and the other adults read their books. The women walking by our little group couldn't help but see these two jack-asses and laugh, giggle, snicker, and snort. I couldn't remember what was more funny, Dad and Mike or the reactions of the poor, hapless women who walked by.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

The Birthday Break-down

So I woke up yesterday morning on the down-hill side of my 30s. To be honest, 36 feels no different than 35.

I had received a ton of comments from all you loyal and sweet (read: patient and long-suffering) readers wishing me a happy birthday. Fab even sent me this most awesome e-card:


Can you just feel the love?

Then, we were paid a visit by this awesome guy:


The one, the only, Stuart Hasson of Stuart Hasson Studios. He took pictures of the kids and after two hours of kid-wrangling, it was time to be off to Atlanta Scuba. For two hours, I re-connected with fellow scuba geeks and instructors, handed over my gear for its annual servicing, and a promise from me to "dive" back into teaching scuba diving.

Then, I went to this wonderful place for an essential facial (time to minimize those pores!) and a salt glow body treatment.

Then, it was present time!


Thank you, Avitable, for my copies of Ghost Hunting: True Stories of Unexplained Phenomena from The Atlantic Paranormal Society and Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way and for my part in your way-cool limerick. Dude, you rawk! (Kristi - Don't read the limerick. Your hair will turn gray!) Amongst the flowers from Stuart and Mom, there was a way-cool Halloween decoration from Teri, more books and DVDs from the Ty-man, cash from mom-in-law Bet (woo hoo! cash baby!), and awesomeness all around.

Finally, it was time for dinner at Greenwoods on Green Street in Roswell. Mmmmmmm! I was joined by the Ty-man (of course), Mom, Teri, and Supermom Kristi. Here's the meal breakdown:

Fried chicken for Mom.

Pork chops with lemon-chive butter for moi.

Trout for Supermom Kristi and pork chops for Teri.

And for dessert?

A quarter of an apple pie for Supermom.

Chocolate cream pie for Ty-man.

And a yum-yum luscious cherry pie for Mom.

Then after that scrumptious dinner, it was time to go home, with a quick stop off to Roswell's creepy house for Supermom Kristi to see a notoriously haunted Roswell locale. BOO!

Thanks, everybody, for making my 36th birthday a great one. Love you all!