all images © Meghan Boyer Photography

Thursday, May 30, 2013

No Underwear

So it wouldn't be right if we didn't at least pop in to say hello to an ER doc over our Memorial Day weekend camping adventure.  We had almost made it to one year after all.  One year.  Without a visit.  To an emergency room.  Or a ride in an ambulance.  Almost.  But not quite.  Sigh Giggle.   We'll try again next year.  Try.  And try again.  Fail more times than we try.  Laugh a lot.  Smack myself in the head often.  Then think about trying again.  I like to think about trying tomorrow.  Just call me Scarlett.

We thought Grady broke his foot.  Again.  Never mind the communicable looking disease that was making it's way up his arm.  When the triage nurse asked why we were there, we pointed to his foot.  Then mentioned his arm.  So which are you here for?  She wanted to know.  Well, the foot.  And while we're here...could you check out the arm?   We were those people.  As always. 

The kid hadn't bathed in nearly four days.  Unless you count creek water.  Which I do.  His diet had consisted of Airheads, Sour Patch Kids, a case of soda, and some orange juice out of a wine glass. 

Grady had to remove his pants for the x-ray.  I cringed.  I knew what was coming.  Surprise!  For them.  Not for me.  No underwear.  Because not one kid in our family wears underwear.  Not one.  Ever.  I made a rule that everyone wears underwear to school.  But I forgot the rule a couple of days after I made it.  Who can remember all these rules anyway.  And alas, it wouldn't have helped.  Preschool graduation was last week.

The foot wasn't broken.  No one knew what the hell the rash was.  Poisoning by sugar is my diagnosis.  But no one ever listens to me.  Because I wear underwear.

The weekend ended with me falling into the lake.  With my camera.  The camera was fine.  Saved by the case.  Which was soaked.  Then I put the camera back into the wet case.  Because I wear underwear.  And suffer from a communicable disease.  Called Dumbassness.   I won't tell you who I caught it from.

Grady did eventually walk on his foot again.  After being carried around for the day by his twelve year old camp girlfriend.  That kid's got game.  And communicable diseases.  But no underwear.  He'll be just fine. 

Origin of the communicable disease.

Saturday, May 18, 2013

My Kids' Favorite Four Letter Word

I've come to the realization that my kids don't know their heads from their asses. 

Dempsey farts and says he burped.  I correct him.  "Oh.  I want to do it again!"

I tell Grady to sit down.  He stands on his head.  And says, "Sit down is my middle name mom."  

Ha.  No one sits in this family.  It's a dirty word around here.  A four letter word.  Ohhhh, he sits.

People sometimes ask me how I do it?   Manage the triple threat. Our neighbor asked me, just this week.  He said he thinks we'd have to be drunk all the time.  I think he sits at his front window.  Analyzing our recycling bin.

Then there's the ice cream truck.   Always in our neighborhood.  It sits.  And waits.  For us to be begged to death and poked at with wooden swords.   Having our money stolen from us by thirty pound members of the official Triple Threat Gang.  

Except for the day when I desperately want it to sit in front of our house.  The day the Triple Threat Gang starts asking at 6am when the truck of frozen treats will be arriving.   

It doesn't show up that day.  Mostly likely it sits.  In another neighborhood.  Avoiding our children.  Because it knows.

Instead, the Edible Arrangements truck arrives.  With flashy pictures plastered on its' side.  To deliver a gift to the neighbors.  For putting up with us.  The picture looks like huge bouquets of ice pops.  And while the truck clearly reads Edible Arrangements, to my illiterate children it clearly states, kill me for ice cream.  Lillian shrieks violently while Dempsey runs directly into the path of the still moving vehicle, screaming "ice cream! ice cream!"  Dempsey is what we refer to as super illiterate.  Kill you...Kill me...same difference.   Grady, armed with a green plastic knife, bikes furiously over to the truck.  "I'm going to kill you!"  He shouts.  And all this time I'm simply trying to have a normal conversation on the phone with my mother-in-law.  She hangs up when she hears, "kill you!"  and "Grady, drop the knife!"  But don't worry, she always calls back.

Okay.  So I know this sounds terribly awesome awful.  A two year old.  Committing ice creamicide.  A homicidal three year old.  With a knife.  Going after some poor guy who's just trying to deliver some fruit on a stick.  To the unfortunate neighbors who have to tolerate these pint sized beasts everyday.  But really, who hasn't had a moment when they would kill for some ice cream?  We've all been there right?

So then there's me.  Holding the green plastic knife.  As the bearer of fruit bouquets scrambles back to safety.

I scream, you scream, who kills sits for ice cream? 

A day in the life.  Of us.  Where no one sits.  Not even for ice cream.

And that is how we offed the Edible Arrangements guy.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Crabs for Mother's Day

Her first radiation treatment was May 17th, 2012.  Her last wish, before the treatments began, was to eat steamed crabs for Mother's Day.  She ate them.  And so did I.  They were fabulous.  And so was she.  My mom.

She had a sore spot on her throat.  It only bothered her when she ate tomatoes.  Or drank Coors Lite.  She thought it was just an annoyance.  A boo boo that would go away.  It didn't.

It was cancer.  Then came the surgeries.  And the claustrophobic mask fittings.  To ensure the rest of her face wasn't subjected to the harsh rays.  She endured radiation. Hospitalizations.  And months on a feeding tube.  Endless doctor's appointments.   Exhaustion.  The inability to talk on the phone.  A near daily occurrence for us.  Before.

She was unable to work.  Or keep her beloved grandchildren for sleepovers.   It was hard for her to swallow.  Anything.  Even water.  Her mouth was burned.  Her throat was burned.  But she didn't give up. 

Today,  Mother's Day 2013, she ate steamed crabs.  And so did I.  They were fabulous.  And so was she.  My mom.

To my mother on Mother's Day,

I didn't ask to be born.  But boy am I glad I was.  Thank you for creating me.  Thank you for carrying me.  Thank you for giving birth to me.

Thank you for hugging me.  And kissing me.  Thank you for showing me right from wrong.  And to always say 'please' and 'thank you'.  You led by example.

Thank you for teaching me.  Lots of things.  Like the importance of a hand written thank you note.  And how to smile.  At everyone.  Even when you may want to punch a couple of them in the face.

Thank you for always believing that the glass is half full.  I can't imagine life any other way.  But full.  I know that mine is.  Because of you.

Thank you for cursing me.  With multiple children that act exactly like me.  I couldn't live without them.  For they have made me a mother. 

Thank you for telling me to never doubt myself or my beliefs.  That is why I never doubted you.

Thank you for setting rules and curfews.  Making me roll my eyes.  And let's be honest, driving me absolutely crazy.  I guess I can't blame it on the children after all.

Thank you for all of the unsolicited advice.  I didn't want it.  But now I realize, I desperately needed it.  Now I'm glad I held onto it.  In my heart.  Most of it anyway.  I wish I would have written the rest of it down.

Thank you for making me feel okay about driving my own children crazy.  I know they will thank me one day.  Just like I am thanking you.

Thank you mom.  For eating steamed crabs today.  Happy Mother's Day.


Love You More Than All The Tea In China


Friday, May 3, 2013

I'm Old. Blah.

I am old.  I turned 35 exactly 11 days ago.  Not that I'm counting.  The first time that 35 smacked me in the face was at my semi annual dental check up.  I was 35 and 3 days old.  The hygienist hit me up with a periodontal exam. At first I giggled.  "I've never had this test before.  This must be because I'm old right?"  She giggled.  Bitch.

When I was 35 and 8 days old, I discovered a bunion on my foot.  Yes, a bunion.  The world's most disgusting.word.ever.  I can't believe I'm even admitting to it.  I convinced myself that my feet were just getting skinnier.  And the bones were protruding.  When I was 35 and 9 days old, I glared at it.  I did this instead of reading books to the children.  I didn't even feed them.   Eh.  Who can eat when your mom has a bunion anyway?  At the end of 35 and 10 days old, I realized that I will be asking Lillian to rub my bunion.  For a quarter.  A whole quarter!   I'll just call her Rusty.  For this story's sake.  And I'll give Audrey Grady a quarter too.  See, I knew I wasn't wasting my time watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation over. and over. and over again.  I can finally put that knowledge to good use.  Now that I'm 35.  And 11 days old.  And know that it's acceptable to ask someone to rub your bunion for a quarter.  Because they do it in the movies.

My children have sucked the life out of my boobs.  And pooped it right out.  My boobs have gone right into the Diaper Genie II.  That bitch.  Some genie you are.

There are spider veins on my thighs.  My thighs and I?  We were just starting to get along.  And spiders?  We've always gotten along!  What have I ever done to you?  But let you live in my home.  And eat my pests.  Children included.  Now?  You suck.  I'm stamping out every single one of you.  From this day forward.  You can mark it in your calendar, 35 years and 11 days old.  Bitches.  I'd be happy to have a mosquito bite me in the boob right about now.  Who needs you Mrs. Spider!

My gray hair is multiplying like our children.  I used to blame it on Sean.  He rubs his head against mine while I'm sleeping at night.  I swear that he does.  Now I blame it on the children.  And my boobs.  And the spiders.  And the fact that I'm 35 and 11 days old.

So what do I love about 35?  I love that I don't care so much about what other people think of me.  I love my family.  I love my kids.  I love my husband.  I love my job.  Even if my bosses are constantly full of shit.  Whose aren't?  I love my home.  I love my life.  And...I love my butt.  Especially since I make an ass out of myself.  But who cares?  I'm 35.  And 11 days old.

Take that 35.

And the butt that I love so much.  Okay, so maybe it's not really mine.  But it's totally awesome right?