Summer is Winning

My daughter took this pic of me. I think my face says it all.
Note my lack of make-up and all the glasses/cups/ remotes/ books
next to me. If you could see my cat's face, you'd see her
ever present pain of  disappointment in my shortcomings as her servant.
Classy stuff.

I almost didn’t post this.  But, after talking with a friend yesterday, I felt like I should. I told her about a hard time I was having and she was relieved by my honesty and thanked me for it. She was struggling too. With what you ask? We’re sick of our kids!!!! They are winning and summer is beating us like an old rug. I’m seriously failing at it. Really, I had such high hopes. Although, not sure what they were now except sleeping in, which I don’t do and if the kids do, it only means they will go to bed later that night. And, of course, that means I will get to bed later too. 

I guess I imagined lazy summer days. You know, the kind where the house is clean and we’re all just reading the dozens of library books we checked out or quietly playing Legos and unicorns are grazing in the back yard. I add in that last one because it’s about as likely as the first two. Although we did, for the record, check out dozens of library books which I now owe late fees on. 

See, we’ve been pretty busy. My daughter has tutoring three times a week, my son has had a ton of orthodontist appointments and goes to therapy once a week (Asperberger’s), they both have jiujitsu twice a week and I try to get to kickboxing and jiujitsu myself. (The nerve of me daring to have an outlet.) Somewhere in there I get groceries, kids in tow complaining about the cruelty of me including them in such a mundane task, do laundry, which there’s a lot of during the summer, and feed everyone…something. 

Last summer, I remember grilling a lot: vegetables, fish, other stuff I can’t think of but know I grilled. This summer, I step out and barely get half way to the grill before mosquitos have nearly drained me. Pale and anemic, I crawl back to the door where the cat is staring at me through the glass with her usual, “you’re such a disappointment” look, meowing her cat curses. One of which probably drew the mosquitos in the first place. Dinner ends up being whatever takes the least effort. (For reference, Rice-a-Roni is a huge effort. All that stirring at the beginning. Who am I, the queen of England that I have time for that?) And, I used to cook. For realsy, Martha Stewart Living cook. Now, it’s a daily struggle not to succumb to the Siren call of McDonald’s. That Ronald, he’s a ruby-haired temptress. Have you ever noticed how pear shaped he is? Him and Grimace both. With good reason! For that same reason the Hamburgler is ashamed to show his face.

Because we’re busy, I’m in my van almost everyday (It’s developed a smell that will require an exorcism to remove), the inside of my house looks like it’s thrown up, my meals are barely even meeting the definition, laundry is undone and I’m not getting to work on my book one iota. I got up one morning around 5:30 A.M. to work on it and was doing great until my kids woke up…early. And my husband decided to get up and go to work…early. And in case you’re wondering why I’m not working on it now rather than writing this, my book requires more concentration. While I’m writing this, my kids are upstairs singing and making toot noises. I can’t do actual work with Masters of Flatulence playing. Call me A.D.D. (Which, I have so…there is that.)

And on that note, I don’t know what’s worse, them fighting or getting along! When they are copacetic, they roar through the house like Vikings on a tear, pillaging and destroying. When they fight, there’s screaming and telenovela style drama. Yesterday, my son got ticked off at his sister and calmly and menacingly said he was going to tell all her secrets. Her eyes widened and she cried out, “no, no, please, I beg you, don’t tell my secrets. Don’t tell them!” What secrets? Is she teaching Chemistry and selling meth on the side? She’s eight for Pete’s sake! (In case you’re wondering, I didn’t ask what secrets and I don’t want to know! And, I’m choosing to ignore the fact she has a teddy bear she calls Heisenburg.)

These things alone, I might could stomach. But, because I apparently enjoy punishing myself, I get on Facebook where everyone has posted pictures of their summers, which look nothing like mine. They’re on beaches, at theme parks, or doing some fun craft with their kids - all of which have on clothing. (My kids are apparently training for Naked and Afraid except they’re only half naked I’m the only one afraid. You’d think that them insisting on being in their underpants all the time would make for less laundry but not so and I’m not sure why that is.) Then there are the selfies of all the gals out having fun at Bunko (which I wasn’t invited to and I don’t know why as I am quite obviously a real pip) and in the background is a sparking clean house. Or they are all tan and happy sitting at a local restaurant where other people are cooking their food and cleaning their dishes for them. 

And, in case I wasn’t feeling low enough personally, I get a professional smack as well. My writer pals are announcing their new book release dates and/or contracts or posting their word counts. “Wrote 3500 words today, maybe a little over!” Maybe a little over? You don’t know for sure? Well, at least I’ve got that one on you, I know exactly how many I wrote. Zero. Bam! Gotcha! (By the way, know where I’m checking Facebook? The toilet. Yep, that’s right. Go ahead and judge me, I don’t care. That’s the only place I get a minute’s peace. And, I literally mean one minute. Yesterday, while I was in the throws of regret over a Fiber One bar - those things should have a warning label - the kids ran into the bathroom five times to tell me there was a hurt bird in the yard. On the sixth announcement, I screamed, “Don’t you come in here, don’t even think about it.” So, my son stands at the threshold and whispers, “the bird is still in the yard, it’s hurt, but we’re taking care of it.” Great, I think, I don’t even want to know what “we’re taking care of it” means. I mentioned my son has Asperger’s. He’s a fountain of factual knowledge a good portion of which is medical. He could have performed a tracheotomy on the poor bird for all I knew.)

So, there is it folks. My summer. I’m failing at it. And, I feel awful about it. But, what I feel worse about is that I’m looking forward to my kids going back to school, to using the restroom in peace, not wondering if bird surgery is taking place in my yard or if my daughter is selling meth and if she is, why am I not seeing the money? What kind of mother am I? Not the good kind. I’ve seen the good kind. They sit in restaurants with their well behaved kids, ordering an extra helping of broccoli because little Johnny just loves it! And, I’m willing to bet little Johnny hasn’t convinced his sister the mole on her hand is Black Death (Happened) or the five year old neighbor that he might have cardiac arrhythmia (Also happened)or pooped in the bathroom trashcan because their brother was on the toilet - even though there are 2 other toilets in the house (So happened). And, I bet that mom doesn’t even own Fiber One bars. (Again, those things…they should sneak them to Al Queda.)

So, people, if you see me out in public…wait, lost my train of thought, my daughter just came in the room in her underpants and is rolling on the floor making toot noises with her mouth and clapping. Oh well, at least she has on a shirt.

At the end of the day (please say this day will end today), I'm blessed. If this summer kills me, I died a free woman in the United States knowing Jesus loves me. And, I went normally. Yes, this is all normal. Being a parent, wait, being a human,  living life can be tough. Even a blessed life. If it's not, I have to wonder how much you're really living. Also, I have laughed at all this. Now, it was the kind of laugh that usually gets you a rx but I laughed nonetheless. Because, even though my kids are certifiably nuts, they are awesome and I wouldn't change them...oh my word, if my daughter doesn't stop making that noise!!!!!!!


The end.

My Red Roots

   I have always had questions about my roots, from whence I come. Oh, I’ve been told likely stories of Scotland, England and Native America but none of those have struck a chord with me. Something some how in some way was missing and that thing kept me from embracing who or, in this case what, I truly am. Until now. Behold, the mystery hath been solved. Exhibit A (that means look at the pic on the left): I am a vampire. You can see me here in my cage fresh off a kill. 

It is utterly ridiculous that I am realizing what I am only after having seen the pictorial evidence. Here’s why…
Fact: I fairly well burst into flames just seeing a picture of the sun. Seriously, my bathing suit is basically a burka. I’m pretty sure the lifeguards have reported me to homeland security. I totally fit the “profile”. That and I also scream out words that sound like Arabic but aren’t. I have found that if the table at the water park that I want is occupied, all I have to do is float over in my dark Angel of Death suit and scream out in my Persian gibberish and ta-da, free table. Of course, I also do that just ‘cause I dislike people (I’ll get back to that) and that act gives me a pretty wide berth.

Fact: I dislike people. That too speaks to my vampiric nature. You would think I would like people since I need them to survive but not so. Being raised in a human guise must have made me subconsciously shun, yea verily despise, my natural taste for people and I, therefore,  developed a distaste for them. People are the worst mammals next to bats (I’ll get back to that). They always want to you say stuff and do stuff and not throw things at them. (note: i love my children. just want to put that out there.)


Fact: Bats are awful. More evidence that I am a vampire and have been raised to shun my nature. Bats are little, hairy, pig-faced, goblins that fly. They fly! Do you understand the implications of that! They can fly into your hair, get caught and you would have to be decapitated because you would be ruined forever. There is no going back to society after a bat has been caught in your hair! You would be in a constant state of flashback. How could you not? And, have you seen them fly, their bodies I mean? They have for real bodies with arms and legs and pot bellies and they just spread their creepy skin wings and fling it all out there like little perverts. They don’t even try to cover up their stuff. They are awful. End of discussion.

You may be thinking that me being in a photo proves that I am not a vampire. Fact: that theory has never been validated. Also, my parents surely knew of my “situation”, I mean, they took a pic of me in my blood soaked glory and it is highly possible, they had a special camera capable of such. But again, who said we couldn’t be captured in pictures? Probably vampires that just hated school picture day. I think that's also where the whole "glittery in sunlight" mumbo jumbo started. I said that as a excuse to avoid the sun as well as being in a bathing suit in public way before I knew I was an undead.

I would also like to submit that the picture of me could simply show that as a baby, I enjoyed the taste of lipstick. Maybe.

The End.