My Daughter Is Home And Praying For The Eternal Salvation of Her Mother's Soul

A not so widely known fact about me is that I was baptized as a Lutheran. I was raised by a Catholic and an atheist.

What I am is not important to this story. Because what I am is the mother of a dead child who struggles most days to understand what His purpose is with that little nugget of fantastic pain that I was dealt.

Tonight what I was though, was a haggard and tired woman in a Buddha t-shirt and scrub pants, standing in the middle of her kitchen, fighting with her toddler on whether or not she was loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher. He was mostly unloading. As he screamed "no mama!" my tween approached.

"Here mom this is for you."

"Oh, thanks Boo, this is very nice. Did you do this at church camp?" I only saw the glimpse of the cross and was mostly expecting handmade birthday wishes as doomsday is fast approaching. I looked at my daughter who just got home less than 24 hours ago from a summer with my ex-in-laws.

"Yes, mom. They told me to give it to someone who doesn't go to church."

As my youngest stood clinging to my leg and screaming bloody murder, I peered down at the religious propaganda I held in my hand. Beautifully decorated by my daughter, with the word Mom carefully written on the front, I looked back into her blue eyes.

"Oh gee, thanks kid."

And that's when she stood there and proselytized in the middle of her brother's tantrum.

"Hey babe, let me stop you right there, I don't go to church because I'm 32 years old and I don't have to anymore, okay?"

"Yeah, but do you believe?"

"Seriously, are we standing on the street corner in NYC right now? Take this dollar and go on, Boo. I get where you are coming from and would love to have a religious discussion with you, but you should know, people are not cool with random questions about their religious affiliations. You know, just between you and me."

And I could tell, she was already praying in her head.

She already believed I was burning in Hell, but the question was, could she, as the daughter of such a heathen, be saved?

My standard answer to the question of "do you believe" is "suck it, none of your business, bub." But today,I had to be more delicate.

As she walked off to her room, as my kid stood still clinging and screaming, as I realized I was still holding the primary colored religious materials, as I looked down at the Buddha on my chest, I sighed and I looked up. "You are up there, aren't you? Some kind of sense of humor you've got, huh?"

Is It Still Called My Happy Place If There Are Shivs and Shin Kicking Gnomes Involved?

This week has found me saying "a-hole" more than the average amount. Whether it was in the rain-soaked traffic or muttering it under my breath, just out of ear shot of my almost two-year old as he threw his 800th fit of the day. Yes, I called my adorable son an asshole. Because he was. Being an asshole that is.

What I'm saying is I've had it with all you assholes out there. And, I don't know if that means you, but if you think that it might then just stop being an asshole and we'll all be okay.

Monday started the week in fine form with layoffs in my office. We all sat around waiting to see if we could kiss our asses good-bye, so by the time they got around to telling you what percentage your pay was going to be cut, you were dancing for fucking joy that you still had a paycheck. It was only later that you stopped and thought about it and went, "Hey! I just got screwed!"

After wading through the mounds of COBRA paperwork and making sure I was all up on the new COBRA stuff (which would be more fun if I could be all hip hop and singing, "I'm all up in your cobra stuff"), I sat around with shaking hands for the rest of the day to drive home to Young Wheezy and his full-on fuck you attitude.

And then? The rest of the week went like this:

* The kid stayed sick and wheezy and grumpy and just schmucky and junior douchey in general. This morning he laid on the floor, face down and screamed for an undetermined amount of time.

Undetermined because by that point, I ceased to care about whatever it was that he completely invented on the spot to get pissy about.

* Jason went into Monk's room with a box of trash bags and went to town. Now our garage is filled with bags and bags of all things pink, glittery, fluffy and girly until she goes through it all and decides what it is that she can't possibly even think about going on living without. And, because "the puberty" is imminent she's been a joy to be around.

* Proofreading multiple replacement window brochures, multiple times. Who knew you could write 20 pages on windows? Well I know, I also know that degrees MUST be spelled out and for the love of all things zombie, why the fuck can you not stop hyphenating that fucking word? I circled it over 100 times already.

* Ants, fucking ants. Why? Because the people in my office drop things like pecans on the floor and then just leave them there. Simply so they can come up to my desk and whine about all the fucking ants in the kitchen.

* And apparently eating all those fucking pecans makes them stop up the toilets which then again, becomes my problem because evidently no one can wield a plunger except for me.

* Speaking of toilets, it's common courtesy to put the toilet seat down in shared bathrooms. I mean unless you're a hobo. And if you're a hobo then go piss in the alley where all the hobos take our trash out of the dumpsters and just leave it there so we can hand pick it all up. I don't want to touch the toilet seat every time I take a whiz. Seriously, it's just a little like touching every ass in this office and I'm not down. Especially because it seems you are hobos, dirty, hobos. Besides, there is trash in the alley I have to go pick up now. Scooping up old spaghetti and used tissues is just my idea of a righteous time.

If all of that wasn't enough, then my red, swelling, itchy eye and my also swelling fat ass should be. Because as it turns out, I also eat when I'm stressed out. Which meant that, yet again, this morning as I went to put on my jeans all they did was groan and say "fuck you, lard-o". Being curvy isn't always grand. Actually, it's mostly not grand. Also? I didn't know that denim could actually groan and creak, but look at that, it just did.

I am now sitting here, fashioning plunger handles and pecans into shivs. Pointy-ass shivs. I've gone on to create a hobo assembly line, with all those dirty, drunken hobos just a whittling away. Because if you're going to do it, you do that shit right.

Satan Speaks, I Listen

Last night, Crazyman's daycare provider sent home the monthly newsletter. I have now dubbed this newsletter "Satan Speaks."

This month's issue tells us all about how this week is Dr. Seuss week and that he will need to wear his crazy socks on Wednesday and bring his favorite stuffed animal on Friday.

The she tells us about the freaking two weeks she will be taking off this summer with one of them being paid. Paid by us. Fantastic. No really, that was one of my favorite parts. I get it, everyone needs a vacation, but two weeks back to back. Oh the convenience of that is unspeakable! (Bartender - another round please, this is a red letter day!)

But that wasn't my ultimate favorite part. No, the part that I will be highlighting, reading, re-reading, making a collage out of, printing on t-shirts, taking out billboards and carefully cutting out, gluing to a little doily heart with glitter, oh so much glitter and putting under my pillow at night so I can have sweet dreams about those fun little words - is the part where, even though she admits it won't be popular, the kids are no longer allowed to bring personal objects and toys.

I get it. I really do. But do you know who does not get it? Who is not at all reasonable about it? Who would actually prefer to tear off my face, rather than hear the very rational words I'm uttering, words that sound very much like, "you cannot take the ball with you today"?

The first attempt at explaining the new policy this morning resulted in him not brushing his teeth. I saw the logic there. Perhaps if he just handed me the toothbrush back then he could take the ball.

Makes total sense. (Yes, I'll have a Bud Light, please.)

Until he threw himself on the floor and ended up in his bed until I was done getting ready. Somewhere in that mix he managed to half undress himself as well.

Then he came down the hall, ready to go, with a baseball glove and not one ball, but two. Sensing the challenge I manned up and actually got him to put the glove and the ball in the toy box.

The BALL, not BALLS. (Yeah, just leave the bottle, there's a big tip in it for you.)

At this point, I actually see no sense in going any further. All I'm going to say is that the results were AMAZING and complete with my kid tossing himself into a snowbank, sans coat, minus hat and the newly created policy being repealed JUST FOR HIM.

I compensated for the whole thing with ironic music selections for the drive into the office. I let Dave Gahan's voice swirl around me and encourage me to Enjoy The Silence. And then? I went straight into this.

Because it truly is a fine day.


UPDATED: Do you ever do something stupid and with little thought and THAT is the thing you get noticed for?

All the time.

A Lunch Hour Poorly Spent

Also? The worst illustration I've done so far. Enjoy:

Rosebetsey's Baby

Lately you may have noticed that I've been going off on tangents that involve zombies, shivs, Teen Wolf, air-punching, air-punching while watching Teen Wolf and so on.

For those of you who have read Rosemary's Baby or at least seen the movie, then you will understand why I've gone insane and have almost, just almost started eating raw, red meat and drinking a "shake" every morning.

Because when you give birth to the most adorable version of Satan's seed you go ape shit crazy.

And if you don't believe that Satan's seed part, I beg of you to lay your eyes on this grandiosity of magnificently, adorable freaking ornery:



Yeah! That tore it's way out of me like the Alien! And no, Peter Coyote was no where around when it happened.

My Son's Deepest, Darkest Secret

Isn't this exactly the very thing that critics of mommy bloggers everywhere rail against? Telling your children's secrets on the internet and how they will hate you when they finally discover what you have done? Well have no fear, my husband and I don't so much have college funds set up as we do have therapy funds for our offspring. You can take that idea if you like. I think the insurance world is missing out on that one.

So my beautiful son has a deep, dark secret that has in turn become my deep, dark secret. I find myself avoiding writing about it and if I do have to tell someone about it, I do so through clenched teeth, while making excuses for him. On top of that, I make excuses to myself that his father did it until he was three, so it's genetic and not my shortcoming as a mother at all. Of course not.

My 19-month old MUST have a bottle when he wakes up in the morning and when he goes to bed at night. I know, I know, shut up. I feel you out there judging me and quickly clicking on the comments section to leave some well meaning advice, but please don't. I mean I could tell you how he is standing here next to me in his pajamas and winter coat with his hat on, but I won't. One secret a day is enough for anyone.

Crazyman drinks that morning bottle like it is his job. Like if he stops sucking for one instant before every last, little, sweet drop of milk is totally gone he will shrivel up and die. He struggles to breath through snotty noses to get to the bottom of that heavenly chalice. His first words each morning are "baba" and may the Lord have mercy on your soul if you don't produce it fast enough.

And yes, I've tried to stop it, but you don't know. If you utter the words 'no' and 'baba' in the same sentence the flood gates of hell rip open. If you say those two words in sentences that just follow another, his head spins and he tries to rip your face off. This is not a choice, it is a way of life.

So really, you must realize just how excited I was last night when suddenly my son decided that he could no longer drink his milk out of bottles with pictures on the side. This is a simple fix, I just give him one of the THREE bottles that we have that have no pictures of giraffes or Gumby on the side. Only the thing is at 19-months he isn't equipped to say "You know, Mom, I'm getting a little too mature for these cartoon characters to adorn my beverage. Could you kindly choose a more mature vessel for my sustenance?" No. What he is equipped to do is whine at length for his "baba, baba, MAMA BABA" and then swat the bottle with Glo-worm on the side out of my hand with only a scream and no worthy explanation. Many times I tried to give him his much loved baba and many times it flew across the room with grace and a splatter of the white stuff. Over and over he pointed to the cabinet and yelled "baba!" and gave a look that said "Woman, understand what I say, read my mind, I will use my baby Jedi mind tricks to make you jump off the roof!" And I tried, oh how I tried. Suddenly, as if God Himself spoke to me, it occurred to me and I put the milk in another bottle. And in that moment, I swear to you, I heard Heaven's angels singing in my ears. The roof of my kitchen opened up and God's Glorious Light shined down upon me as if I just pulled Excalibur out of the stone. I had won, even if it was only a small battle.

That was all fine and good until this morning my husband gave him that fucking Gumby bottle.

I will now be off to clean up the mess caused by fire and brimstone, which by the way, brimstone is a bitch to get out of upholstery.

Clark, that's the gift that keeps on giving the whole year

At this point I would welcome a jelly of the month membership.

Admit it. Whoever gave me this gift come forward and admit now. Come on! I know someone did. I mean Toddler Possession is all the latest rage right? And believe me having a kid whose body houses the King Of All That is Unholy is truly the gift that keeps on giving the whole year.
And since my little angel couldn't possibly want to be evil all on his own, I'm sure some well meaning person signed us up thinking, "Oh the Booms' will absolutely LOVE this!"

Well we don't! As a matter of fact it completely freaking sucks. And it didn't come with a red bow or a fancy foil tag with our names scrolled on it. It just showed up one morning last week and has NOT GONE AWAY YET!

And it is our gift alone, because do you think that he throws himself on the floor, flinging snot and tears all over the his daycare provider's house? No! We get little pieces of paper every day with the word HAPPY circled on it and little notes that he made a bird feeder today and doesn't eat mashed potatoes. Nothing on there says, "Today he projected the image of Satan onto the wall and then threatened to eat our dog!" or "after his eyes rolled back in his head, he spoke in tongues and revealed the date of the Apocalypse!"

Every day I come home and read the note and think today is the day that we have broken the spell and then mere seconds later his head spins and he growls, "come join us, Mama! We all float down here!"

In between the sessions of demonic inhabitance, I see glimpses of my sweet faced, little boy who hugs my head and gives me sweet, sweet kisses. I look at him and know I am blessed for having such a beautiful, healthy boy and then he utters something in a language that I can only guess you have to be 18 months old to fully understand and the second I look confused and don't immediately hand him the very thing he just told me he needs or his head will explode he then, actually explodes into a writhing, snot-flinging, back-arching, floor-kicking hell beast. Complete with kung fu action.

Last week I went to the doctor to discuss how my meds aren't touch my anxiety and when the doctor asked me if I've been under more stress recently, I just looked at him blankly. Because honestly? Wouldn't it be his duty as a physician to call mental health services if I let on for one moment that I thought demons lived within the chubby face of Crazyman?

So you'll have to excuse me. I just crawled out of the rocking myself to sleep in the fetal position long enough to write this post to tell the world that I'm alive, I just can't come to the phone right now because His Darkness has made me His Bitch.

The Number One Reason Why I Shouldn't Blog Today

I had a dream the other night that I walked down into our family room only to find my husband, laying on the couch, seductively rubbing his leg and beckoning me over.

The weird thing about that is he was wearing a bear suit and then he pointed at the TV and said, "Look babe, I put the good stuff on" and it was an episode of Yogi Bear.

Talk about stuffing your picnic basket, hey Boo Boo!

Seriously. On top of that my monkey-like son has crazy climbing skills and has decided that when we put him down for a nap in a bed with bars all the way around it, it's merely a suggestion. One that he's not complying with and then we find him standing in the living room 5 minutes later.

Or creeping up behind his father while he's cooking and scaring the bear fluff out of him.

Let's hope that my sleep deprived brain recovers soon. And on that note, ya'll will be pleased to know that when I have nothing to blog about on the weekends I'll be able to tell you that as we will have internet access at the house now.

I know, contain the excitement. Now I can offend someone even on the seventh day because I'm a tool like that.

Possession, Toddler Style

I don't know what beast of hell took a hold of my son's body yesterday, but I want it gone. DAYMONS, BE GONE (I just shouted that with a horribly executed southern accent).

Simply put, if I had a stake stowed under my bed last night, I can' say I wouldn't have used it.

Okay, I can say that, but mostly just because people seem to take me really literally and I'm not a big fan of explaining myself to social services or plying them with bribes.

As I dropped him off yesterday, I noticed he had circles under his little baby eyes. I mistakenly took that to mean that he might not feel well. What I should have known was that holy water would become a necessity around midnight last night.

When Jason picked him up, his day care provider sweetly pointed out that he was playing flesh eating zombie and decided that two of his fellow inmates looked like tasty morsels. While I thought the biting thing had been curbed it appears that demon possession brings out the teeth in him.

Who knew?

And while I feel a little bad for those kids (no, I don't), I'm more upset that I have to force feed him dinner every night but evidently he'll just haul off and eat a kid whenever he feels like it. I bet they don't have to make stupid airplane noises to get him to open his mouth.

As the afternoon wore on into evening, the demon within my son got progressively angrier and when Jason took the camera away from him last night, the flood gates of hell broke open. Great angry cries of "Mama, Mama!" roared through the house as snot and tears freely flowed down his deceptively cherubic face.

I came in just as fire and brimstone began to rain down upon the kitchen. I fought an epic battle over a grilled cheese sandwich that only ended with a snot covered sandwich and a sweat covered me. I quelled the beast with some ibuprofen and large amounts of milk for a short while.

Sometime shortly before midnight, the house began to shake and rumble and he whose name we don't speak began to scream from the confines of the sweet baby crib I put my son down to sleep in.

The next two hours were a blur of holy water, bibles, crucifixes, casting out of evil spirits and late night Oobi watching.

That farking hand with the eyeballs is freaky scary, ya'll.

He fell asleep on my chest as that talking hand went blah, blah, blah. After being asleep for a while he (and I kid you not) began doing this weird creep down my body and the bed reminiscent of Regan on the stairs. At that point I'd had entirely enough.

Close to 2AM peace began to fall back on the house. I crept into his darkness' room and put his little snoring body back in there. After cleaning up the pea soup/snot mixture that is the remnants of toddler exorcism, I finally fell back asleep.

I can only hope that tonight is better and I don't end up all Father Karras at the bottom of the stairs.