Texting With Monkey, Or There Is No Way In Hell I'm Going To Survive This Parenting A Tween Thing

Friday night Jason got home and said it was time we got new phones. He and I would upgrade and Monkey would semi-upgrade to my old phone. (Which is now covered in Pooh Bear stickers.)

(I said semi and pooh!)

With the upgrade in phones, we also added unlimited texting, which basically meant that Monkey could text now and texting was destined to become her new job, which would replace the old job of looking at me like I was dropped on my head and put on this planet to totally jack up her life.


Saturday when her dad came to pick her up, the Dude ran down the hall yelling "Sissy, your dada's home!" (How is that for blended family dynamics?) And off with her dad she went, about 2 hours later, the first text rolls in:

Hi mom. :) :P...

I responded and then she came back with:

Cool!!!!!:)...

And then:

Realy?!?!?!?!:)...

And:

Realy?? OMG!!:)

On and on this went for 3 hours until she ended with:

KINGKONG!!!!!!!!!!:) :) :) ...

Ten fucking exclamation marks. King Kong all one word, which still beats really with one L, I guess. This makes me question the school system that awarded her straight A's. Also, I'm not really sure what the hell she was talking about. I don't think she was even watching King Kong.

The good news is that this is the most we have talked in a year. You know, since "the hormones" kicked in. Well, with the exception of that day when I told her where babies came from and completely ruined her life FOREVER! Why AM I so weird and gross? The bad news? I was trying to drink in relative peace from my children and now she could reach me anywhere. Thanks 3G network! No really, freaking thank you.

In the morning I was a little hungover, eating an ice cream bar and french toast and greeted with:

God morning!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:)...



When she got home from her dad's that afternoon I said, "Let me see your hands."

And then I broke her number 1 button pushing finger and told her she'd thank me later. Because no kid of mine was going to abuse punctuation in this manner. If she couldn't punctuate maybe she'd focus on her spelling.

I'm pretty sure this is the same program they'd use in Summer school's across the country.

The next day I caught her texting her friend:

i just got back from the grocery store

No punctuation.

"Monkey, go put that damn phone in your room!"



She had to explain to her friend later that it's not that she's NOT excited about the grocery store, who wouldn't be, it's that she is grounded from exclamation marks. And only allowed 25 texts a day.

***

PS - I totally lied about the breaking of the finger.

PPS - I just sprained it a little.

PPSS - Still lying, I kicked her in the shins...

Do I realy need to go on???!!! :) ;P :) ... OMG!!!

He's Got A Face That Only A Mother, The Camera And The World Could Love

This was the best thing that happened this weekend:



He will insist that we keep clicking, over and over and over again:



When the camera comes out, he will give you hours of good face:




Other than the steak tacos that Jason made to cure my craving, the rest of the weekend was pretty much crap and I'd kind of like to crawl back into bed and sleep the sucker off.

Oh and if I don't stop eating things, you know things, I'm going to end up on TLC or the BBC. And they will be using a wench to get me out of my bed, or better yet, off the couch. The good news is we will find the remote that has been under me for months, the bad? We'll find Cheetos and lint too.

And pudding. We'll probably find pudding. But I don't really like pudding, it's just that ice cream melts, so we wouldn't actually find any ice cream, just the ice cream stain.

Frankly, I'm Exhausted

Honestly, I just don't have the mental capacity to write anything that makes total sense. However, a few interesting things have developed in the last day or so.

First of all, I picked up my father in law at the bus station last night. He was an alcoholic and homeless for years.

So I guess I'm not really sure why I was so surprised when I got out of the shower this morning and through the open window I hear the sound of a beer opening on the back deck... At 6:30 AM.

Now, granted, it was NA beer. But, you know, it just seemed kind of not right.

I was really struggling this morning, so perhaps I should have cracked a beer myself and claimed hair of the dog. Last night I stayed up way too late, sitting on the back deck, drinking cocktails and listening to my brother's tales of woe.

One story in particular is still sitting in the front of my head this morning because the sheer audacity of some people is really amusing to me.

My kid brother has this friend, and I use the term lightly, let's call him Mack. Mack and my bro have been friends for years. Since they were just fresh faced kids in school. They've been through all the usual junk that your formative years hold. Some years ago, Mack moved to NYC with his girlfriend. Said girlfriend dumped Mack shortly after he moved, leaving him to fend for himself in the big bad city. When Mack called upon my brother to help him move back, my brother jumped in his car on a Friday and went to help and was back at work on Monday morning.

My brother put a trailer hitch on his Volvo to pull the U-Haul trailer back, which they ended up not being able to get, so he then put Mack's moped in the trunk of his Volvo and back to KC they came.

They've had adventures like this for a long time now.

The point of this story is simply to lead you to the next awesome act of friendship my brother did for this guy. It seems Mack was in receipt of some student aide to take some online classes that he didn't really feel were worth his while. Mack cooked up the bright idea that my brother would help take these classes for him and Mack would pay him $150 to do so. As it turns out, my brother helped the kid get a B in one class but he received a D in the other because Mack failed to mention the due date on an extremely important paper.

Fast forward to this week. The camera store my photog brother worked at has closed, putting him out of work. My brother has a small legal issue and is need of cash. Calling in the $150 Mack said he'd pay him for the classes was necessary at this time. Repeatedly Mack says, "Sure man, I've got it." The day my brother goes to get it, Mack calls him and says this:

"Dude, I've got a moral dilemma with paying you the money. You didn't really get a good grade in the class so morally, I just feel like I can't pay you the full amount, but I've got fifty bucks for you."

***

"STOP!", I yelled. My brother looks at me. "Seriously? He's having a moral struggle over paying you the full amount he said he would to have you LIE for him. A moral dilemma?"

My bro looks at me, slowly nodding his head like I'm an idiot. "Wait, do you see the huge problem here? That's like saying, I'm not going to pay you for killing that guy, because all you did was maim him and now he's just a quadriplegic and not a dead one! I just can't, because my morals won't let me."

Realization lights up my brother's face, "Hey, yeah, that's more jacked than I thought!"

"No really, it's like telling the hooker you just told to give you blow job that you won't pay her now because she only licked one ball and morally you feel that's just not right!"

A Word About My Mother

In honor of Mother's Day (a completely fictitious holiday obviously created by the greeting card people, that I partially depend upon for a paycheck) I'd like to take a moment to thank my mother...

For never REALLY selling me to the gypsies.

I mean, you threatened it a lot and there was that one time you put me out on the front stoop with a sign that said Five Bucks(which I thought was a little low but whatever), and then that guy with the van that had blacked out windows tried to actually pick me up, but you stopped him.

And that? Was awesome.

Thanks Ma.

Light On The Vulnerability, Please

Climbing into bed last night, it felt like one of those nights where I would lay there awake, tossing and turning. But, as I laid my head on the pillow, it felt like the events of the day were piled on my chest, dragging me down into sleep.

The day had been wrought with lay offs and pay cuts, and when someone tells you that you're pay is getting cut and you don't have a choice about it... you suddenly realize just how vulnerable you and your life actually are. You realize you're happy just to have the job and the pay cut seems suddenly like a bonus.

Granted I work in a place where the owners took the largest pay cuts, it still stung As the emails from my co-workers who were let go on Friday came rolling in, I suddenly realized that my job, the job that I love so very much could be ripped away from me. I don't "belong" there, I just work there.

I came home and watched my son struggle to breathe. Vulnerability is like an albatross around my neck today. Sitting on my back, watching my struggle with the realization that my life is not made of steel and brick, it is flimsily constructed of paper and strings. Creatively wound in the form of a soft hammock that cradles me, but that may just tip and drop me to the hard, rocky Earth below at any moment.

Also? If you're my neighbors, that flashing light wasn't code for 'please fucking help us we are being murdered', not that you offered. It was my kid and I fighting over which position the light switch would be in while he fitfully slept.

He won. Light on.

My Neighbor Kid Is An Asshole

And, just wasting my energy on this little tweentard mental ninja of Jedi, fuck with my daughter's mind tricks is pissing me off.

Here's the thing. The kid made my kid cry and now she's going to pay.

She's run a steady show of bitchiness that we have tolerated up to this point. My soft spoken, kindhearted daughter typically shrugs it off and goes on her way. But, she's fucked with her brother and now Monkey is not happy.

Monkey takes very good care of her brother, because as she said, "He's the only one I have now and I want to protect him." So when the neighbor kid got pissed at Monkey for paying attention to her brother and not to her she blurted out, "He's only your HALF brother anyway." She just tossed that in her non-stop stream of snotty, bitch face comments.

I just realized I'm too mad to even do this right now.

My kid sat, curled up against my side, sobbing last night.

Jason and I tagged team the kid at the bus stop this morning. First, he pulled up next to her and said, "Before you come over and play again, I'm having a talk with your mother." Without knowing this, I pulled up next to her:

Me: You know, you really hurt Monk's feelings last night?

It: How?

Me: By telling her that her brother was only her half brother...

It: I didn't mean...

Me: I don't care what you meant. Are you aware that her brother died?

It: Yes I am.

Me: Well then have a little consideration for her feelings about her brother. He is the only one she has and she loves him. You need be a little bit nicer to my daughter, young lady.


Yeah, I busted out a young lady.

Whatever.

This is stupid.

That kid sucks.

The Squirrels In Our Family Tree

When I was a little girl, my grandmother wrote a book about the whack jobs in my family. The title of the book was 'The Squirrels In Our Family Tree'. Keeping up with this rich history, I went on to marry a man whose last name literally translates into "nut tree".

In the usual chaos that composes my morning, my very favorite story about the horrid little man that was my Great Grandfather made it's way into the forefront of my mind. Moe was little, drunk and mean. He was a scrappy, spiteful man with a wicked back hand who was as bitter as the day is long.

Moe and his wife, Dotty, were raising my Grandmother in St. Louis, back in the days when you could send your kid down the street with a bucket and she'd come home with it filled with beer. I imagine that was handy. Mostly because Moe was a painter and like most every painter I've ever met he was a drinker.

Moe had been contracted to paint the interior of the neighborhood funeral parlor. On this day, he had been instructed to paint a particular room and in the middle of that room was the body of a dead man on a slab. Evidently, the funeral director didn't feel it was necessary to move the body or to instruct my intoxicated Great Grandfather on what to do with the body.

Undaunted, Moe set about his work, giving the room a fresh coat of white paint. As the day wore on and the room was finished, he then turned to look at the body in the middle of the refreshed room. Noticing that he has splattered the poor, dead, African-American man with white paint, he did the only thing that seemed logical to him...

He painted the man white.

His entire body got a nice coat of interior paint.

I never did hear what became of that man, but I can only imagine the looks on the faces of his family when they showed up to view his body.

Lamewad with a brain freeze.

Crazyman has been possessed by the spirit of Stuart. Which has really made vacation super enjoyable.

"Do you want breakfast?"

"Nooooooo."

"Can we change your diaper?"

"eeeeeeehhhhhhh"

"Can I throw you to the sharks?"

"Noooooo, let me do it!"

I have fantasized about throwing myself off our balcony just enough times to be considered really unhealthy.

He has yanked pictures off the walls, pulled drawers out onto the floor, thrown his sippy cup at the blinds, broken the latch on the entertainment center, taken the Playstation apart and nearly put it back together again.

Nearly.

He's so bored inside the condo he just walks around swinging his arm back and forth looking for the next thing to fuck with. Mostly, he just makes sport out of carrying my laptop around using only one hand, over the tile floor.

His sister has created her own entertainment by making sure we know that this entire thing is just so incredibly stupid and I, most certainly, am a complete lamewad.

The good news is that despite my lamewaddiness, I found a place across the street that has giant wine freeze slushies. I bought the cup and have unlimited refills.

Ooooh, I have to run. The bathroom just opened up. I've got to use my 5 alotted minutes wisely.

PS - the guys are at Home Depot getting a new ceiling tile. I might have been air punching a little too emphatically during a wine induced brain freeze.

My New Diagnosis

In the big ol' crap pot pie that is a Mid-West winter, it took me more than 3 times my normal commute time to get to work in blowing snow that was awesomely forecasted as "flurries". I was out of Diet Coke this morning and about 20 minutes into waiting to just get ONTO the highway I realized my cell phone was dead.

Rad.

Last night I was doing my usual flirtatious tango with sleep, complete with the rose in my mouth as sleep swept me and dipped me but didn't really whisk me away until I finally just willed it to come over me. As sleep and I did our dance of love, I was watching The Principal's Office on TRU. And let me just tell you, teenage boys are hormonal and damaged goods. What a bunch of tools.

My favorite moment came when one of the kids revealed that he had a disorder I'd never heard of but am completely familiar with. It's called Oppositional Defiant Disorder. And I'm totally familiar with this disorder because it's basically called being a teenager.

Symptoms of this behavior are:

• often loses temper
• often argues with adults
• often actively defies or refuses to comply with adults' requests or rules
• often deliberately annoys people
• often blames others for his or her mistakes or misbehavior
• is often touchy or easily annoyed by others
• is often angry and resentful
• is often spiteful or vindictive

See also: Betsey when she is drunk.

While I know my brother is wrought with this and my husband is pushing it into his 30's, I think I had this when I was a small child.

Some examples:

How about the time I annoyed my mom who told me not to drink the nail polish remover when I was like 2 but I did it anyway? Firemen and stomach pumping should be a staple at any good party, trust me. This also totally explains my ability to drink like a man. A big, huge, hairy man.

Or the time I totally proved my mom wrong about the correct use of Kleenex and threw an entire box of tissues into a candle in her bedroom? Again, I love a good fireman and pushing the envelope on 'renters insurance'.

And then when I was about 5 I had hair down to my butt and when my mother told me not to take the curling brush and wrap it in my hair, I totally won when I went ahead and wrapped it right in there... I twisted and turned until it was hanging about an inch from my head. Good times were had that day as I got repeatedly slapped in the head and told to sit still. Why my mom didn't shave my head, I'm still not sure.

Oh and then there was the time I wanted to play with my grandma's shaving cream in the bathtub and was told to be careful not to get it in my eyes, whatever. I proceeded to make myself the biggest, whitest, fluffiest beard you've ever seen and then really? Was the look complete without eyebrows? Oh hell no! And you know, no girl can have a beard without the full ensemble. So yeah, I took a big plop of it and stuck it right in my eye. My mom's laughter while I screamed was awesome and not at all a topic during later therapy sessions.

My favorite was when I was 8 and I got a pocket knife and was cutting a huge box to make it into a store to play in. My dad gave me the pocket knife and told me to be careful as he went to go take a shower. Two minutes later he was pretty annoyed by my wails and bloody hand. God, I showed him. Take that you showering, not watching the kid with a pocketknife Dad!

Hey!

Now that I think about it, I don't think I suffered from ODD as much as a case Darwinism and lack of parental supervision.

This also explains my ability to drink like a man, a big hairy man.

Exhaustion

I'm not going to sit here and whine about how tired I am, about how holiday prep, etc. has kicked my worthless butt. Mostly because I know that not one of you would feel sorry for me. And unless I can evoke some kind of sympathy, then really? Why bother?

Okay, I lied, I'm totally going to whine.

Actually, today kind of rocks because as of this weekend (where I logged about 6 hours sewing) I got the aprons made, my shopping done, the presents wrapped (5.5 rolls of wrapping paper later), Christmas cards sent and I cleaned the office for the last time this year. Woo-freaking-hoo on that one, I tried to think of a million different reasons to not come in and clean. None of them were good enough. Not even when my husband danced around in front of my face with a beer in his hand - shaking it at me, telling me how cold it was outside, could I justify staying home. Although his awesome dance could have swayed weaker people.

I did not get the laundry done, bathrooms cleaned, my hair bleached or my bedroom unearthed from the mass of Christmas "goodness" it has become. So if you come to my house you will not find any clean underpants (why are you looking anyway), you will be witness to urine spots on my toilet (you'll get over it), you can marvel over the inch of dark blonde roots (shut up!) and if you go in my bedroom, make the bed, would ya (thanks)?

This chick is pooped. You have to know that I was busy all weekend when my husband not only threw in a load of laundry but then didn't even complain when I had to retrieve his underwear and socks from the dryer this morning, only then to find he was totally out of undershirts and ended up wearing a Royals freebie t-shirt that said MUSTARD across the chest under his button down. Classy.

I also forgot to mention that you can throw in there that we had friends over for dinner on Saturday night. Jason put out the best spread of Mexican food EVER! (It's a good thing I NEVER exaggerate, isn't it?) However, on the way to our house, our friend made his wife pull over so he could toss his cookies on the side of the road. When he got to our house he laid on the couch and ate Saltines. She and their girls ate and an hour later they headed back out again. I don't know if they were the best dinner guests or the worst I've ever had. I decided on the best when I was in my pajamas by 9:00, drinking a beer and relaxing.

The whole weekend ended with my son head butting me with a football helmet and asking me why I was such a butt face.

Except that wasn't my son, that was my husband.

Happy Monday!

Burn Dust!

This past, long, holiday weekend was full of good moments, bad moments, weird moments, scary weird, therapy inducing moments and well, just moments.

First, let me start off by saying that, yes, we did have a house guest this weekend. The house guest being Jason's father. And for everyone who has ever spent extended time in their own home with in-law's they know it's just weird. It's weird because suddenly you find yourself sharing your home with someone who is your "family" only they aren't your family because you just married their son but now they are like your father or something weird and here you are lying in bed, listening to them pee in the middle of the night like 5 different times. Yeah, it's weird but you know your spouse is enjoying the time with their family so you're all like, well, cool.

Here's the thing about spending time with my in-laws, I get these scary, clear insights into my husband. Because he's had strained relationships with his parents for extremely good reasons, I didn't get the usual look at my future in-laws that a lot of girls would before marrying. All I knew was he was a kid who deserved to be loved and it didn't seem that a very good job had been done of that and I knew I could do better. So when I saw my father-in-law's face when my sister's fiance smeared whipped cream on his own nose to entertain my daughter or when he expressed his annoyance of a toy that played music and made my son put his hand on his hip, stick out his lips and do his best 18-month old Mick Jagger impression, I couldn't wait for him to leave the room so that I could loudly whisper to my husband "Man! Your childhood must have sucked!" To which he nodded and said, "now you know."

And that is the extent of how deep I'm even able to make my thoughts today due to the fact that Jason and I capped off the whole weekend by having some ungodly, flu-like thing that made us wretch and double over in pain for an entire 12-hours yesterday. There is no way to drop those added Thanksgiving pounds like an angry stomach/angrier bowel induced day long fast.

Really. You'll want to trust me on this one and not check it out for yourself. But if by some chance you don't listen to me because you're just a willful creep (and really, I like people with some "stick-to") like that then you too will find yourself laying around, in your own stink, three day hair, haphazardly shoved around on your head with a headband pretending to hold it in place, willing your stomach to please shut up and quit clenching into a double-windsor knot every time your 18-month old desperately needs the cracker he just dropped in the dog's water bowl.

It was this same day of eating nothing but water and crackers for 24-hours that made me just walk into my local sub shop and shout, "I want the best sandwich in the world!"

Thanksgiving day itself is just a faint memory at this point. I did the majority of cooking and baking the night before leaving me with nothing but time on my hands to pace around the house looking for things to do before the family sailed in for the turkey goodness. I vaguely remember the meal as being good, having too much pie and then the fact that my grandmother said these words:

"And he was arrested for banging his girlfriend on the hood of his car at a drive-in"

Forget the fact that she just announced that the person she is talking about in that reference was her supposed step-brother but she was positive he was really her half-brother.

Yeah, wanna take a look at my family tree?

I clearly remember choking on my pie and asking, "banging or BANGING?" Grandma looked at me wide-eyed and said "BANGING! He was doing her on the car!"

After much discussion, Grandma finally announced her departure with the phrase "now that I'm leaving you guys can let the conversation get raunchy"...

Ahem.

Sometimes there are no words.

Other than that? I read an entire book and partook in some movie marathons. A self-imposed "Christmas Vacation" marathon and a Fox Movie Channel imposed "Planet of the Apes" marathon that had me walking around the house shouting things at my husband like, "Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!" and "eat my rubber!"

Happy Holidays.

State of the Union with Grandma Betsey

I was named after my grandmother. Well, I need to clarify, I was named after the assumed name of my grandmother. The woman is just quirky enough to boldly declare that her given name was not suitable and that she'd just go ahead and give herself a new one and everyone would call her that from now on. And THAT name was the name I was given. I'm not sure how much of an honor it is to be named after an alias, but hell, whatever.

I sighed deeply as I realized I needed to call this little 5 foot ball of fire that is my maternal grandmother to invite her to Thanksgiving. The last time she and grandpa came over for the holiday she called from her cell phone yelling, "What street do we turn on? All I see are streets named after fucking horses!"

So I begrudgingly dialed the phone. I was hesitant not because she isn't entertaining, but because...

Well...

SHE NEVER STOPS TALKING. If you call for a 5-minute chat you better invest an hour. And within that hour, I can put money on the fact that you will hear at least two stories you've heard 100's of times before and she'll never fail to mention that my uncle's wife is a nasty drunk and she hates her.

And she has reason to. That woman is wretched asshole. But moving on.

Grandma is a spitfire with sparkly eyes that you can't quite put your finger on their exact color. Are they blue? Are they green or gray? Much like my own, they change with our moods. She is flirty to a point of embarrassment and just taking her to go pick up fried chicken for her Sunday dinner turns into me, standing there, pink in the face, just willing her to shut the hell up and quit flirting with the mortified 17-year old behind the counter. She bats her eyes and preens her feathers, one hand on her hip, and the victim stands there, pubescent and frightened. I scan, desperately about, looking for rocks to crawl under.

For the record, fucking KFC does not have rocks. Not even the fancy ones that are combined with Taco Bells or Long John Silvers.

I've never been one to mince words or act in a delicate manner with my language. Often times I've hopelessly wished that I could be a wilting flower of a lady and mind my manners and my mouth.

But to no avail. It seems genetics have fixed me wrong in that area.

As I dialed her number, I hoped that she would pick up and not my deaf grandfather, who I adore, but yelling into the phone in my office is not cool.

Grandpa: "Hello?"

Me: "Hi Grandpa, it's Betsey!

Grandpa: "Who?"

Shit I have to yell.

Me: "Betsey, it's Betsey!"

Grandpa: "Hold on, just a second"

I wait as my co-workers glare at me.

In the background I hear: "Betsey, it's for you." "Well, who is it?" "Hell if I know, just take the phone."

Today I was regaled with tales of her hair dresser coming back from Argentina just in time to fix her hair that was nearly platinum at this point and of her upcoming jewelry party where she will sell the wares that she and my grandfather handcraft with their retired days. And then she says to me, "Did you know our new President is a Leo."

Oh here we go.

Most of our family was born in August, Grandma and I are included. Being a Leo is the highest compliment that could possibly be bestowed upon a person in her eyes. My 75-year old grandmother didn't catch me off guard with that one, but she was just revving up.

Me, playing along: "Yes, I was actually. I guess you can tell, really."

(I was only half listening, she asked if I knew, not if I was aware, it doesn't matter.)

Grm: "Of course you can. And it's no surprise that McCain is a Virgo."

Me: "No, I suppose not."

Grm: "And that thing,Sarah? She's just a nasty redneck as far as I'm concerned."

Me: "I guess I know how you voted?"

Grm: "Are you kidding me? I wouldn't vote for a Republican if Jesus Christ, Himself were running!!!"

Great, bring the pies, Grandma!

Haaaay, Pumpkins

Remember that one time when I told you I was from Missouri and Kansas? Yeah, I'm about to prove it right now.

This weekend we took the kids to a cider mill with a pumpkin patch so that we can be folksy just like Sarah Palin. It worked out splendidly.

We were folksy while we picked pumpkins and went on hay rides and then we went on to boost the economy and small business by purchasing our body weight in bags of spices and super fragrant, hand poured candles in jars with scents like cinnamon and fall harvest, which in my mind should have smelled like moldy leaves and rotten apples but it didn't.

So here you go. See? I do have a mid-west motherly bone in my body... somewhere:

Look, my kids like hay


And pumpkins, they like pumpkins too


And, farm animals


And sticking their faces in pictures of pumpkins




And climbing hay


And we did the maze, which was more nightmare than not

and then he climbed hay too


And I was a farm girl


Trying to ignore the farm smell. Gag.

Name My Zombie

Since I appear to be lacking focus and drive in my zombie naming career, I'm taking it to the streets. That's right, I may have just called you all hookers.

Name my zombie:



Cute, isn't she? Leave me a comment with what you think her name should be. The winner gets the glory of being the best sock zombie namer in the world, or some shit.

And I thought I'd leave you guys with a little slice of life in the Booms' household. Feel free to watch during this evening's debate if it ends up being entirely one-sided and all. Just ignore the really annoying way I say "what" and the brothel couch in the background.

What Do You Wanna Know?

I sit here, full well knowing that all most of you want to see are pictures. And sitting on my camera, inside my purse are pictures. They are even pictures of my chest. However, they are before shots, not afters. Well, I do have afters, but they are of the fantastic looking bandages I had on following my surgery.

So I don't have the pictures you had hoped I'd come racing in here with today. Sorry. I'm a failure as a person and as a Betsey. I trust that you are judging me harshly and I accept said judgment. Judge away.

You see, my brain is a little jumbled. I had very little time to rest. My dad collapsed in our kitchen on Sunday. My husband frantically dialed 911 while my mom tried to turn him on his side. It appeared he was having a seizure. Something he's never done before. As it turns out it was more than likely a minor stroke and/or his MS flaring up. Dad is fine and as a matter of fact, back at work today. Just as I was up and running errands the morning after my surgery.

We're just bad asses like that.

So if you all want to wait patiently while I put together a wonderfully, beautifully, awesomely crafted post about my experience then, I'll do something as close to that as I can muster. Or in the meantime, if there is anything you're dying to know (I know there is) then leave me a comment and I'll address it before the end of the day.

And that's a promise.

Tough Love

Tough love is one of those things that people can't always agree on. When it's happening to you, it feels so very harsh. When you're dishing it out, it can be difficult and you wonder if you are truly helping someone out.

Jason and I have a family member that is going through an incredibly tough time right now. There are nights when I know this person is lonely and questioning the decision they made. And there are days where they are angry and hating the world around them or the one they perceive as causing them pain.

Hearing of their struggle is so incredibly hard and I wish I could take my experience and roll it up into a little care package, complete with pretty paper, floppy ribbon and a glittery card and place it inside their soul to let them know that it will get better. I can't. I can talk to them and give them advice that may or may not be used. I can say that I understand but that won't fill in the pothole in this person's gut.

It just won't.

It's one of those situations that we are all aware of where we suffer from terminal uniqueness. We don't take the time to think that others go through this and know the pain and the loneliness. The dark, empty nights. The waking to no one being there in your quiet home that doesn't feel like home anymore.

I wish I could open my home, my doors and my little family life up to this person and make it all better. To let my family hold them while they hurt and heal.

I can't.

All I can say is that I do understand and the dark days will become bright again.

This? I promise.

Making Second Base Bigger

It astonishes me how my boobs bring the comments out in droves.

I guess I really shouldn't be surprised given what our society's most popular sex symbols look like, eh? We are a week and a half out and I'm just getting more excited. I did wake up in the middle of a panic attack last night but I couldn't begin to tell you what that should be attributed to.

This weekend when my dad dropped my daughter off after having her spend the night, he sat down at our table to chat for a bit and when the subject was brought up you could tell he was DYING to discuss it. And in true "my dad" form he said "whatever makes you happy, hon." Because that's what he does.

When I was a teenager, one time I told my dad (who is my step dad) that I wanted to be a stand up comedian. He said "You can do it! I'll be your manager."

And then another time I told him I wanted to be a boxer. He said, "You can do it, I'll be your manager." But then told me I was too pretty to box and because I bruise so easily I would always look like I lost.

Even when I didn't.

And still another time, when I was in high school this really stupid boy, who obviously didn't have a clue, dumped me. I cried and cried and the next morning as I was walking my swollen, tear streaked face out the door my dad stopped me. He said, "I don't know what happened but he's obviously missing out. And you can do anything you want in life. You don't need any boy to make you who you are and I know you could be a CEO or a brain surgeon if that's what you wanted, kid."

I know I looked confused when he said it but I thanked him and never forgot that moment.

Of course my friend also always talks about the time in the 8th grade when my dad sat the two of down and asked if we knew the rules of baseball. We looked at each other, sighed and looked at him as he explained to us that no boy should ever get past first base. We laughed for years about that.

So I guess it's only fitting that my dad gave his blessing to me enlarging the size of second base.

I haven't told him that my husband has already hit a home run or two but given the time our nightstand drawer slid open while we were moving and my dad saw all it contents, I'd have to say he knows. I walked out to the garage to see my red faced dad saying that he could have lived the rest of his life without that.

I was pregnant at the time, so I'm sure he knew about the home runs. He just doesn't want the commentary.

Her Response

When I initially decided to go ahead with the breast augmentation I told my sister. Well I didn't tell her at first but there isn't much I don't tell my sister. It didn't help that my husband would make drunken references to my new tata's in front of her. I mean she is a teacher, it was only a matter of time before she worked that one out, not to mention when I showed up with my new giant sweater puppies she wasn't really going to believe that they were the "new beer gut".

When telling her I made her agree to the fine print of the deal that stated that she would not tell our mother. And when I say don't tell mom, it's not because I don't want her to know - she'll know eventually - it's that I don't need my decision to be gossip fodder for the family. That will all happen in due time, right?

Against my initial thoughts and wishes I went ahead and emailed my mother and told her myself. Complete with the words "there, I told you. Now you know", I nervously clicked send and even blogged about waiting for her response.

For the record, I'm still waiting.

Even though I saw her last night.

There will undoubtedly not be any response. There just won't be unless I hear it through the grapevine that are my siblings. Passive Agressive and Avoidance are things I grew up with and had to work through as an adult. I didn't understand that the rest of world didn't sweep things under the carpet and not speak to each other for days on end.

In other words, the cold shoulder was a way of life for me. We had actual icicles growing from our ceiling when I was growing up. There were weeks in the middle of August that a parka was necessary because mom and dad were at odds.

So she came over last night to bring Monkey girl's school supplies over. One of the most awesome things about my mother is that she always gets her school supplies. My mother is a very generous gift giver as well and my dad handed me a nice check for my upcoming birthday.

The entire time I don't think my mother looked me in the eye and barely spoke directly to me. She busied herself playing with Crazyman and looking at everything but me. My dad was his usual silly self and didn't say anything about it so I don't think he knows. Jason quietly asked me if she knew, I said she did. I'm sure she heard us but still nothing came from that way.

And nothing will.

Someday she'll probably casually look at my chest and say something like "did you go big enough" or something else that takes a degree in psychology to fully determine her true meaning. It's okay. If I waited for her approval I'd never do anything because I don't get her approval.

I just don't.

I get her disdain and I get her disapproving looks. I get her judgment in the form of up and down glances to my appearance. I love my mother with all of my heart, but most of us know what a delicate dance the mother/daughter relationship can be. I honestly don't think she means anything by it.

If she comes across this I hope her feelings aren't hurt. I know how bad hurt feelings suck. Like I told my husband last night, if I let my feelings be hurt by it then I'd always have hurt feelings by things like there was no offer to watch Crazyman for my birthday either.

You see, here's the very best part about turning 31. The only approval I need now is from my husband and my kids and I've got that. The mother/daughter relationship that concerns me most now is the one I have with my daughter. One that I hope is going to be a very different experience for her.

I love my mom. She kind of rocks hardcore sometimes. I just know where we stand and I'm okay with that. I have to be.

Which Way Will It Go?

Here it is a Wednesday morning. Not unlike any other Wednesday morning except that it was supposed to be my Friday morning. Until yesterday I was pretty sure that this was the last week Crazyman went to his current baby sitter. With all the information that Jason had given me it seemed that it was. When we spoke to the new sitter we spoke in terms of the other's last week and how her first week would fall in after that. Never mentioning the date because we all knew the date.

Right?

Wrong.

So I had taken a few days off this week to spend with Crazyman before he made the big change. When I told her yesterday that today would be the last day she looked crestfallen. When she asked why and I explained she told me and then it was my turn to be entirely turned inside out with disappointment.

I'd have to work a full week.

So here I sit in a dress that rivals pajamas in it's comfort and professional appearance. I just got done responding to an email from my mom telling me that she has to work the weekend of a wedding I barely want to attend anyway. But that she and my dad would take the kids to dinner and then my sister would be over to watch the kids.

Who could argue with that? I told her as much and then finished up the email with a quick and brief paragraph informing her of my impending boob job.

I have no expectations on the reaction. It could go either way. In the end, it affects me little except for the level of eye rolling I have to perform when relaying the story to my husband and sister. I'm an expert eye roller and was once even fired for the offense. You just have to know I'm rolling my eyes even as I write that. It turns out that I gesture with my eyes. You know how some people hack the air with their hands when they speak? I happen to have overly developed eye muscles from the amount of gesturing I do with my eyes.

So it goes.

Finally today I tell you that my husband in a desperate flight went to Walgreen's to get my meds over the weekend. Luckily, I can only assume for him, it isn't one that takes weeks to go into effect. The days following his trek to the drugstore have been rivaling blissful. The sense of calm I feel is shocking and I no longer threaten to rip faces off. Truly, I would have hated for all of you to see me on the national news when they tragically reported of the crazed blonde PMS'r in KC that went on a facing tearing off rampage.

It would have been ugly for all. And seeing my blood soaked nightgown-dress would have been news worthy enough without the camera man capturing my crazy, eye-rolling antics happening just above the neckline as I shouted about how Wednesday is supposed to be the new Friday.

I'm here, working the whole week, calm, comfortable and awaiting an email from my mom which will have content in it that won't change anything I'm going to do but still the neurotic teenager in me that always wanted her approval wonders which way it will go.

Low

I can't see my way out right now.

I'm really lost in the hurting. I know a good deal of it is Jadon. I know the rest is the hard little ball of hate I have for myself stuck way down inside my belly.

I've heard things said. Things said that won't undo. Things that resonate so clearly inside of me it's all I can feel. If it didn't feel so true then I could brush it aside. If I didn't feel that way too then I could forget it.

Being good enough is never an option and that big hill is always outside my door when I awake in the morning. I wish I could wake up and that hill I've been running up my entire adult life would just be gone.

But it won't.

Things that I have done that are good and right are seemingly unnoticed.

I cling to my son right now because he's the only one I have near me. Jadon is gone and always will be. My sweet daughter is gone for a few more weeks.

I'm rushing towards the end of this year of my life and the beginning of another. Why do we have to mark birthdays when they only serve as a reminder that another year of a life that isn't perfect has washed away?

I want so much to just smile and say that it's all alright. Maybe I should.

Maybe I realize that I'm not what was expected. Maybe I realize that until I'm that very thing then I'll never be right. All of it is running around in my mind. I hear it over and over.

It's always been bad for me this time of year. My birthday, Jadon's death and having Marley gone so close together while realizing that I don't bring happiness are so very much like cosmic kick in my soft belly.

If I can smile. If I can smile and keep smiling will it go away? Will it fix itself? Will a flood of smiling wash it away?