Dear Adam,

Today, you turn 17. Which is one of the top two worst ages to be.  17 because regardless of how independent you are, the law doesn’t agree, and 20 because that is what I call No Man’s Land.. you’re not a teenager, and yet you’re not legally an adult.. Also? You can’t buy alcohol on your own yet, so no matter how awesome the margaritas are that you make, you can’t do it without a little help.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure about writing this.  I have written a birthday post for you every year I’ve known you.  Your birthday has been in the back of my mind for the past two weeks, and I’ve struggled with Do I write it? Do I skip it? I was never really sure.  I thought about not writing it, I wasn’t sure you’d see it, clearly couldn’t know if you read it, and convinced it wouldn’t make a difference.  But I was afraid that if I didn’t it would be that last thing needed to start the zombie apocalypse, and I didn’t want to be responsible for the end of the world as we know it. So I wrote it, in part to save the world, and in part because what if, what if it did make a difference.

So I sit here today, on your 17th birthday, full of all kinds of conflicting thoughts.  So many things I could write here, regardless of if you read it or not.  I could wax poetically about how you’re on the verge of coming of age but really who the hell talks like that anymore?  Besides, have we ever had a serious moment in the 6 years I’ve known you?  Let’s see…

There was the time Grandpa was in the hospital and I met you at the house so we could go to the hospital and get Ashley.  To this day I still don’t understand why the truck wouldn’t start with the Thunderbird key.  And yet it didn’t.  We agreed your dad didn’t need to know, but apparently you crossed your fingers when you made that promise because you couldn’t wait to tell him once we got the right key and got on the road.  Thanks for ratting me out Buddy.

I still don’t get why your dad never understood the importance of squeegee-ing out the out building before we could even begin to start getting the fishing poles ready.  I mean clearly, don’t you have to have a clean work environment before you start work?  Sure… we were hosing down most of the floor, sure the squeegee was a hand-held one, he sure as hell didn’t appreciate our hard work or how clean the floor was.  That’s not our fault.

How many road trips have we taken to pick up or drop off the girls that I promised you a Rooster Booster?  Dad was never happy with us for that either.  Who could forget the road trip we saw this?

How many times did you wave at vehicles passing us? And then, when we stopped for gas…. there was one of the cars at the same gas station.

There have been hours spent playing xbox, when we played Indiana Jones you spent the entire game breaking things, and collecting coins while I saved the world.  None of that Hero Worship crap for you… you wanted the money.  How many times did you almost kill me with your guitar because you were rocking out too hard to Rockband?  And please tell me you have learned to make margaritas without splashing them in your eyes, and wasting perfectly good tequila.

Adam you’re 17 today.  I won’t go into what happened, beyond saying I am sorry.  I reacted, I didn’t think, and I was wrong.  I have, and will continue to respect your wishes, just like I have and will continue to love you as my own.  I sit behind the scenes, hearing of your achievements and I’m proud.  I heard of your wreck, and I cringed, and worried.  But today, today I celebrate you.  Happy birthday Scooter, I love you.

John Stamos, just like wine, ages well, very very well.

Last night, the girls and I were watching television, and Meredith was looking through old People magazines because she is a pop culture junkie, just like her mama.  She makes me so proud.

She’s flipping through pages, I’m watching Two and a Half Men, and out of nowhere she squees John Stamos!  Instantly I laughed out loud because it was almost 30 years ago, that I would squee John Stamos! at the television. 

The difference is,

This is Meredith’s John Stamos:

And he’s a good looking guy to be sure. 

But this is my John Stamos:

It struck me as funny, that my daughter, my 14 year old daughter, was all twitterpated over John Stamos, just like I had been twitterpated over John Stamos at the same age (or close). 

Parenting by the books. You're doing it wrong, which, ironically is right

Have you ever been to a bookstore and looked at how many parenting books there are? There are books for every age, in fact there are books for what to expect BEFORE the child gets here.

So basically, we’re piling on the you’re doing in wrong guilt three weeks after the stick you peed on turns blue.

There are all these decisions to be made from the time the child is conceived. OB-GYN or midwife? Hospital or birthing center or home birth? Epidural or natural? (I recommend the drugs, almost from the time the pregnancy test comes back positive) To video the delivery or not.  (the answer to that one should always be NO unless you can get a stunt double for Mom then maybe.)

After the birth there are the important questions, cloth or disposable diapers, breast or formula, daycare or nanny, gin or vodka.

No matter what choices you make, no matter the reasons, no matter your thoughts or feelings or the fact that you were the one screaming as this wrinkly red screaming person was pushed from your hoo-ha, there are those out there who will tell you, You’re doing it wrong.

Because they know best.  Clearly.

The thing is this. Unless you’re beating your child, feeding them crack, buy them a pole for their third birthday, you’re doing it right.  You’re screwing them up just like the rest of us.  Our parents screwed us up, their parents screwed them up, and our kids will screw up their kids.   It keeps therapists in business.  My sister (who is not a parenting expert, clearly. She just plays one for the purpose of this blog post.) has said of her two sons, “I’m not saving for their college education, I’m saving for their therapy.”  It’s the circle of life.

Our parents managed to raise us without eleventy billion parenting handbooks. They did the best they knew how to do with what they had, and guess what? Most of us turned out fine.  There are the exceptions (Miley Cyrus, Charlie Sheen, Lindsay Lohan), but most of us…OK.  I think the basics are, if you are present in their life, spend time with them, not at soccer practice or dance class, but them, and if you let them know they can talk to you about anything, well, then, you’re doing a damn good job.

My sister said in a text message to me today “Every kid is like a new car. It’s going to get dented/scratched. You’re better off taking a hammer to the fender on the dealer’s lot so that you can enjoy the car rather than being all freaking stressed constantly about avoiding the ding”   While we don’t advocate taking a hammer to your child, the thinking is, “just like a car depreciates in value as you drive it off the lot, and nothing is perfect forever, you as a parent are going to blow the ‘perfect” thing by the end of day one.” It’s easier and less stressful if you just accept that somewhere along the line you’re going to screw things up, but look at them not as mistakes, they are character building activities.  And their therapists will thank you years later.

Once Upon a Time

I found this on Pinterest.  I know, it’s hard to read but it says, “Once upon a time a prince asked a beautiful princess Will you marry me? And the princess said NO and the prince lived happily ever after and rode motorcycles and fucked with cute skinny girls and hunted and raced cars and went to naked bars and dated women half his age and drank beer and jack Daniel’s and captain Morgan and drank the milk from the box and never heard bitching and went to rock concerts and kept his apartment and his favorite jeans and never got cheated on while working and all his family and friends thought he was fucking cool as hell and had tons of money and left & left the toilet seat up The End.

Yay for women bashing.

But my question is, if all of the those things were important and he was absolutely convinced his life with her would mean giving up the rock concerts and the drinking and his friends and hunting and racing and money and his favorite jeans and his Cool… then why did he ask her to marry him in the first place?

So, my fairy tale (because me all know my track record in the love and romance department) would be something like this.

A prince and princess had been dating for a while, when they started talking about marriage.  It seemed like a good fit. He liked motorcycles and fast cars and she thought if he wants to get himself killed I’ll get the life insurance money.  Especially if he’s going to be driving either after drinking his beer or Jack Daniel’s. The Captain Morgan was all hers. And also margaritas.  Because she never bitched about his motorcycles and fast cars or his drinking he was extra careful because he knew he’d never find another woman like her. There would be no need for him to go to naked bars or chase other women because they had a rocking sex life at home (from all the tequila in the margaritas).  She had no problem with the rock concerts and would even join him, because as it turns out they liked the same kind of music and most of the same bands. He insisted he keep his apartment, and she said that was fine, she would keep hers too. It was then they decided they could find an apartment together because he didn’t see the need for her to keep her apartment once they were married.  As for his favorite jeans, he could keep them, after all that was really such a minor thing to argue over. He agreed she could keep her mini skirts because they were HAWT, even though he didn’t like it when she wore them out to the bars with her friends. He trusted her.  His friends thought she was cool because on Sundays she would let them all come over and watch the game, and provide the beer and really awesome snacks and while they were watching the game she would be in another room watching a movie she had been dying to see but knew he wouldn’t ever want to watch.  If they were watching the race, she would join them because she loved racing as much as he did even if she did hate his favorite driver.  His family thought she was awesome because they knew she would never try to change their son because she knew who he was before she agreed to marry him and there was no point in trying to change someone just because they were now married.  After all if you’re going to marry someone it’s better to marry someone you know and have things in common with, instead of marrying a stranger. Her family loved and adored him because they knew that he would provide for her, and he loved her and he didn’t control her and he trusted her and she would never betray that trust. He still had lots and lots of money because she had her own job, but since they were combining their lives why not combine their finances too? It only made sense.  And that toilet seat issue? She figured it was easier and less energy to just shut up and put the seat down and go on because there were bigger things to worry about.  Like who his favorite driver was. Then end.

Shut up. Did you miss the part where this was a fairy tale??

I live with Bert and Ernie only with vaginas.

People? This is the best Bert and Ernie book. Ever. It was one of my sister’s favorites when she was a child.  Ok, I don’t know that for a fact. It was one of MY favorites when she was a child.

If you haven’t read it, (and clearly most of you probably haven’t) it’s the story of how Ernie bought some cookies but broke the cookie jar, so he has to put the cookies in the sugar bowl, and the sugar in a flower-pot, and one thing leads to another ending with the fish in Bert’s cowboy hat.  So Bert has to wear a pot on his head when he wants to play “Ride ’em cowboy.”   People? That is a direct quote, do not laugh at me.

This weekend, the girls and I stopped at Sonic on our way back from The Lake. (who we were with is a blog post for another day).  A few miles down the road,  the following conversation took place in the back seat of the car.

Newt: Here, Tate, Hold your Sonic food.

Tate:  Why should I hold my Sonic food?

Newt: Because I have to put my food in your Sonic Bag.

Tate:  Why can’t you put your food in your bag?

Newt: Because mine has a soda in it.

Tate: Why does your bag have a soda in it?

Newt: Because the cup holder is full.

Tate: The cup holder is full?  Of what?

Newt: Books.

Tate: What?  Why are their books in the cup holder?

Newt: Because I don’t want them on the floor on my feet.

Tate: So what I supposed to do with my Sonic food if you’re using my bag?

Newt: Hold it on your lap?

People?  I can not make this shit up.

Never miss an important holiday like National Margarita Day again. You’re Welcome

Yesterday, it turns out, was National Margarita Day.  You would think that I, Queen of all things tequila, would have known this important bit of information and planned my day accordingly.

My minions? Failed me.

I didn’t find out about this National Holiday until I saw it in my Google Reader.  (Thank you Kelley and The Bitchy Waiter)

Finding out in Google Reader? That is a travesty.  Seriously.  How could I not know about this?  So I did what any self-respecting Queen of all things tequila would do. I sent out a text message to my besties “Holy Fuck Batman! Today is National Margarita Day! Why the hell are we not celebrating?”  (The best response to that text? “You are so fucking awesome!”) Of course, it being a Tuesday night, and us having jobs and shit and having to work today, kinda but the kibosh on the celebrations.

In the interest of never missing another important national holiday like this again, I went in search of all the most important, little known, shouldn’t be over looked holidays.  And let me tell you?  There is a fuckton of them.

February 26th is For Pete’s Sake Day *and* Levi Strauss Day.
February 28th? National Tooth Fairy day.
March 1st? Pig Day and Plan a Solo Vacation Day
April 15th is Income Tax Day, but did you know it is also McDonald’s Day and Take a Wild Guess Day?  Pretty sure that last one? Is not the best way to file your taxes.  It is also? That Sucks Day, which makes sense.  Clearly.
May 6th? No Homework Day *and* No Diet Day.  Awesome!

I could go on and on, there are hundreds of observations.  Now?  Not only am I fucking awesome, I am a wealth of important trivial holidays.

They're always thinking of me

Last night, after picking up the girls from their dad’s early because he wanted to watch the Super Bowl. Meh, what do I care?  I’ll pick them up early.  Not like I was watching the game.

We get home at a fairly decent time, and by decent I mean Oh my god I still have hours before it’s time to go to bed even though I could drop right now and sleep the sleep of the dead.  I decided to have a snack, you know because nothing is better than eating when you really just want to go to bed.

I’ll have some cheese and crackers and finish off that half bottle of wine in the fridge that I started the other night while watching the second season of Sex and the City.

I go to the kitchen, open the cabinet, grab the box of crackers, pop it open, reach in and Hello (hello hello hello) (those are echos for those of you who aren’t hearing this post narrated in your head like I am as I type it)

The girls?  Had helped themselves to some cheese and crackers (but not my wine, thankyouverymuch) while they had been snowed in.  Fine. I’m ok with that.  The cheese and crackers?  For everyone.  The wine?  All. Mine.

I reach in the box, thinking WTF?  There, at the bottom of the box….

2 1/2 crackers.

Not 3.

Two and a half.

I slowly turn to the girls and ask them “Did you seriously put this box away with only two and a half crackers left in it?  Why not just EAT the two and a half crackers?  There’s still plenty of cheese left, so I know you didn’t run out of cheese.”

The best answer they could come up with?

“We wanted to save some for you mom!”

Gee.  Thanks.

Where is a good Catfish when you need one?

We have a mouse in the house.  It’s not big, but it is fast.  I know that it will go away when A) it warms up outside, or B) it gets tired of sharing the girls’ bedroom with them. (that shouldn’t take long.  There are fewer less deadly hazards outside, even in the cold, than there are in the girls’ room) It’s not like we’re feeding it or making a bed for him. He’s just here.

Having a mouse in the house isn’t anything new to us.  It honestly has nothing to do with my level of house cleaning, I swear!!! It has a whole lot to do with the fact that every house we have lived in is close to or surrounded by fields and mice are a fact of life.  When I was still married to the girls’ dad, we lived in a farm house that was over 50 years old.  It was kind of loose in the joints,(the fireplace was falling away from the house and I found snow in my living room on more than one occasion) and old, and settling. It was not unusual to see a mouse or two running around the house.  Especially in the winter.

One morning I got up to get ready for work.  I was still breastfeeding Newt at the time so I had to get up extra early.  I walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light, lifted the toilet lid, preparing to sit when I saw him…

Mighty Mouse, doing laps in my toilet.

It took everything in me to not scream but I had sleeping babies I didn’t want to wake up yet.  So I put the lid back down, calmly walked back to our bedroom and told the girls’ dad “Uh, you need to get up and deal with the mouse doing laps in our toilet.”

“All you have to do is flush him.”

“Uh, have you met me?  Knowing my luck?  He’ll float as the water level rises, grab ahold of the rim of the bowl, climb out and demand that I bring him a towel.  No thank you.”

“Fine.”

So, while he’s in the bathroom dealing with Mighty Mouse, I’m in the living room convincing myself I really could hold it until I got to work.  Or at least until I got to the gas station in town.  I wasn’t sure which for sure, but I knew one thing… my butt would NOT be sitting on that toilet anytime that morning. Period. Done.

Girls’ dad came out to tell me the mouse was gone. “You can go to the bathroom now.”

“That’s what you think.  What did you do with him.”

“I flushed him.”

“Ok, well, tomorrow, YOU’RE getting up first and checking for swimmers.”

“I’m pretty sure he won’t be back.”

“I’m not so sure.  He found a warm private pool to do his morning laps in.  And now he knows there’s an awesome power water slide too.  He’ll be telling all his friends about it at lunch to day.  Tonight?  We’ll be hosting the Mousekateer Swimming Party.  You better stop and get more beer on your way home.”