My Dirty-Ass 4 Year Old

This is her "dressed up." Still looking a hot mess.

This just struck a cord with me. TG has a dentist appointment with the very lovely, Mallory (she's single and awesome, just sayin) this afternoon and I called my mother who's bringing her to meet me so we can travel together to the dreaded dentist office and my mother asks me "Does she look okay?" *PAUSE* Let that sink in.

 

"Does she look okay?" What the hell does that even mean? She's four. Let's run through the "is my child appropriately dressed" checklist.

 

~Has she showered in the last 24 hours? Yes. Check.

~Is the outfit I dropped her off at school in clean? Yes. Check.

~Will that same outfit be clean when she's picked up from school? Maybe. Check?

~Does she match? Sort of. She picks out her own clothes. No check.

~Will she have crusty snot in and around her nose? Yes. No check.

~Is her hair tidy and kempt? It was this morning when I dropped her off. Check.

~Will it be tidy and free from debris, sand, snot, glitter, glue, sticks, paper or random large objects? Probably not. No check.

~Will she have on some trendy, made for People magazine outfit? No. We're broke. No check. She has on jeans, Nike and a shirt (hopefully).

 

So let's review. She was clean and looked okay when I last saw her. She will spend 6 hours at school surrounded by other disgusting 3 and 4 year olds with their snotty noses and gross, sticky hands, do arts and crafts with various objects, nap and play on a playground.

 

"Does she look okay?" Probably fucking not. She's fucking 4.

 

She has to be at school in the morning between 7:15 and 7:30. That means we're busting ass, waking up at 6:45 in the morning. We're habitually late. *My Fault* We both dig the sleep thing, DO NOT wake the tiny person down the hall on the weekends. She might murder you with her look. Needless to say, I'm a disorganized mom. I'm cool with it. Tyler seems cool with it. She definitely knows what "hurry the hell up before we're late for school" means. But I get it. Some moms have it all figured out. Neatly placed clothes laid out for the next school day, coordinating hairbows, matching socks, healthy lunches all packed and lined up to go out the door. Excuse me... bahahahahaha. We're lucky if we have on even remotely the same socks. She's lucky I remember to bring the PopTart she eats in my car on the way to school. Hairbows? Hang that shit up. She's lucky her hair is brushed... that matted mess she has going on up there. But that's great for those moms, can you come do that shit for me every night?

 

Speaking of waiting until the last minute to wake up - shout out to whoever made the messy bun on top of your head fashionable. I rock the shit out of it every day. Also, I don't wear makeup to work. -Gasp- Screw it. I don't have time, not do I care in the slightest. My black work pants haven't been washed since I don't remember when. They never have to be washed ever in my opinion. My shirt may or may not have CapriSun spilled on it and the only shoes I could locate this morning in the rush out the door is a pair of Teva flip flops from high school. Judge me.

 

So shout out to all you perfect moms who have all your kids' shit together and they look like they have personal stylists. Seriously, my hat's off to you and I hate you.

 

In closing... "Does she look okay?" Really? Hell no. She looks like a fucking dirty-ass 4 year old who's been at school all day. She probably smells real bad too, but I bet she's been kicking ass and taking names.

Tyler Grace-isms And F-Bombs

So this post is about this picture and what TG had to say about it tonight. It's the background on my laptop and this conversation ensued:

 

TG: "That's me!" Pointing to the screen.

Me: "Yup, sure is. That was your first beach trip."

TG: "I ate sand! Look at that baby booby holder!!" (her swimsuit top)

Me: (Deep breath momma, you're gonna make it. Remember this is coming from the kid that's eating stickers on the couch right now. Literally consuming stickers. Will it make her sick? I don't know, but it's keeping her quiet.)

 

Baby Booby Holder? Really, kid? I get that we all have different words for things. Never forget that a microwave is called a Popty Ping in Wales. Google that shit. You're welcome. You've been calling it the wrong thing your whole life. "Fetch me that popcorn out of the Popty Ping would ya, honey?" I could get used to that. Baby Booby Holder is the worst we're working with currently but she hasn't always had a nice mouth. 

Example 1.  She was 2ish. We ventured out alone to Publix. Awesome, just like a fucking European spa vacation... not. After struggling through Publix with a toddler, we get to the checkout. At this age, she's pretty easy to understand. The bag boy, who couldn't have been older than 16 had the worst case of acne I've ever seen. On his face, down his neck and onto his chest. No big deal, carry on then. Yeah... nope, not TG. 

TG: "Mommy, look at his boo-boos. He has boo-boos!"

Me: "Oh my dear Lord child, please shut up."

Me: To the poor bag boy: "Please, bag faster."

Watching his face fall, I knew that my child had just said something hurtful to another person and I witnessed it firsthand. Kill me, kill me now. Please. #thatmomentyouwanttodie

Example 2.  An especially proud moment for me, my child used the dreaded "F" word for the first time, in front of my mother, 2 points for TG. Sitting in Target, after surviving shopping, we sit down for pizza. Beside us is a young Indian couple with their two young sons. My mother brings pizza and sits it down in front of my child...

TG: "Fucking pizza!"

Me: "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

TG: Pointing at the pizza. "Mommy, fucking pizza!"

Now comes the teaching moment. My time to shine. She's two. I can't say "don't say the 'F' word," she doesn't know how to spell, she'll have no idea what I'm talking about. So...

Me: "TG, you can't say 'fucking.'"

My Mother: "CATHERINE!!"

Me: "What, woman? How else would I explain this to a two year old?"

TG: "Why?"

Me: "Because 'fucking' is a grown up word that you can't say until you're older."

My Mother: "CATHERINE!!"

Me: "Shut it, woman. I'm doing the best I can."

TG: "Ok, Mommy."

I look over to see the young Indian couple mortified by my child's foul mouth. Welp... #thatmomentwhenyoumakesomeonehateamerica

 

Then in the car on the way home as my mother lectures me on my "teaching methods," I can't help but be a little torn. Am I mad that I allowed my child to hear such foul language enough that she used it herself? Or I am proud that she used it in the correct context just like her Mommy would? For the sake of humor and my sanity, I'll go with the latter.

OMG... It's A Two'fer

Can I post two blogs in one day? I say yes because I am that bored today. Also, because it's my blog and don't read if you don't want to. I don't care either way.

 

My first post was my normal positive and upbeat post like I'm used to posting. This one, not so much. I'll let you in on a little secret - I miss my son more than words can describe. I know, I know, that's totally normal, he was your son, of course you miss him, blah, blah, blah. No... like miss him, miss him. Like, all I think about 24/7, miss him.

 

If you've never lost a child, I hope you never do. It's something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I would wish things like a lifetime of uneven table legs, or a predisposition to always hitting "Reply All" in their emails and texts, or a lifetime of friends who only talk about their baby's advanced mental and physical development. Those are things I wish on my enemies. Oh yeah and the constant sensation of a missed sneeze and whatever you want to call that taste of orange juice after you brush your teeth, in their mouth, all the time. But to lose a child, that, my friend, is the ultimate misfortune.

 

You see, to lose a child by accident is one thing. To lose a child by means of a purposeful act... well, that's a whole 'nother ballgame. How would I know this? I've been through both. I mourned the loss of my son by "accident" first. It's a lot easier that way. Part of me still wishes I didn't know the truth. I could deal with the "accident." I can't deal with the truth. Because the truth is, he suffered, it wasn't instantaneous and that kills me. Period. I feel as though I have died a thousand deaths for my son every day since he's been gone. I can't help but put my mind to that place where he was that day and what he might have felt. You can't stop your mind from going there, it just happens. Was he scared? Did he wonder where his momma was? All of those things you can't help but think about even though you fight it and try so hard not to go there.

 

He was my everything. I love TG like I don't even know how to describe it, but JK, he... he was my baby. There's a special bond between moms and little boys, especially if those boys are the baby, and he was mine. He was perfect. He did no wrong. I feel as though I will go through the rest of my life trying to fill the void he left. I know in my mind, logically, that will never happen, there will never be another, but try telling that to my heart. It won't believe you, I promise. My heart longs for him. It grieves for him every single day, even almost 2 years later.

 

Losing a child is not just mental, it takes its physical toll on you as well. I went from a 5'3 125 pound frame to 5'3 100 pounds. My hair falls out. I have developed adult acne (seriously? why this? losing him wasn't bad enough? it has to show in huge, red pimples that refuse to pop on my jawline?! seriously?). But the mental aspect is much greater. The anxiety has transformed me from an outgoing, people person to a terrified of public introvert. *no new friends* I loathe going in public anywhere and only go if I'm bribed or forced. The promise of wine and not actually having to speak to anybody helps. And don't even attempt to call me on the phone. It's not going to happen. There are 27 other ways to contact me that doesn't involve me actually speaking to you, use one of those.

 

I am afraid I am teaching my daughter to be scared of the world. She need not be. She needs to be smart, not scared. My emotions come from a still very raw place that she knows nothing about. So how do I do that? How can I be emotionally crippled from the grief of losing my son and still be a powerful enough woman to be a role model to my daughter? You see where my thoughts go? All over the place, that's where. At least my humor is still intact, right? Ok great. So back to TG, how do I do that?

 

There is no way for me to hide my grief from her. I don't cry in front of her. Actually, I don't cry in front of anybody. Cries go in the "Feels Box" along with love, and warm and fuzzies, it doesn't get opened much. Yes, I have a "Feels Box." Judge away. It's not an actual box, you know what I mean. But my grief manifests its way into her everyday life without my even knowing. My inability to remember where the fuck I put things, my short temper, my short attention span, my ability to zone out and daydream and ignore her. Yeah, I became that parent and I didn't even know it.

 

Hopefully, she'll look at me when she's all grown up with children of her own and wonder how I was strong enough to make it through. Or she'll hate me because she realized I lied to her about bedtime because I figured out how to change the time on the cable box. Either way, my son's death has created a constant tug of war in my mind on whether to focus on my grief or focus on my daughter, because right now, I can't do both. I figure, I will miss JK my whole life, but TG is only little once. It's time to let the past go and start focusing on the future. JK is still part of our future and we will continue to honor him through his memories, I'm just making a solemn vow to no longer let it consume me.

 

Also, welcome to my mind when my ADD meds have worn off. Hope you can keep up.

Oh, Facebook, You Win.

For those of you who wanted a book, sorry. For those of you who would be satisfied with a blog, you're welcome. This is my first blog. I'm not sure how blog etiquette works so bear with me. I'm not always well-versed. Most days I can't form a complete thought and I just say "fuck" a lot. Sorry in advanced for the "F" word. I like it. It is what it is.

 

I posted a "parenting rant" on Facebook last night, as I like to call it, others call it my "soap box" and I just wanted to reiterate what I said. I never meant for it to become a spanking argument. I don't spank TG because it doesn't work for her, but should I have another child who responds to ass-whoopins, I will gladly hand them out. With that being said, my only plea was for all of us parents to stop judging other parents. We don't know what goes on in their households, maybe it works for them. Awesome. We're all just trying to do our best to hold on and make it through the day. If you lay your head down at night and you have healthy, happy kids down the hall, you're doing alright. Put it in the win column and move on.

 

Every single day since I became a parent, I've pondered for more hours than I'd like to admit about what kind of child I wanted to raise. What kind of woman was I raising for the future? And I've come to discover this about myself: I'm not the woman I want TG to be. I never will be. I was taught different, I learned different. Not to say my parents were wrong or I am wrong, I just want her to be a better woman than me. I want to raise an independent thinking woman. One who doesn't worry with silly ideals of what a woman should or should not be. A woman who knows her worth and demands respect from her peers. A woman who's not afraid to say "fuck." Ok. She got that from me. I want to raise a person that's strong enough to see both sides to a story before she makes her decisions. I want her to be an individual like no one has ever seen. Uniquely her own and fiercely independent. I want her to be loving and care for those who cannot care for themselves. I want her to be the best girlfriend any woman would ever have and always vow to never spill secrets or drinks. I wonder if I shown her these things enough. It's not enough to me to just say them, I want her to see them and believe in them. I want her to know there's more to life than being a housewife, but if she chooses to be just that, then that's okay too. I just want her to have a happy, fulfilled life, whatever that entails.

 

If she wants to drop out of college and travel for a year, hopefully to Bali because I've always wanted to go, then I will do my best to accommodate that for her. If she wants to spend a summer semester following Widespread Panic across the country, ok. Just be easy with the drugs. I won't lecture her and tell her not to, she will be an adult, fully capable of making that decision on her own, but I will say this: if it grows in the ground, it's okay with me. Save the drugs for college. Her high school does hair follicle tests and should she get kicked out, I will lose my shit. I ask that she not get pregnant in high school. Not everyone will agree with this and that's okay. Should she get pregnant in high school, it will be her decision. Should she want to terminate her pregnancy, I'll be the first one in the car, empty of judgment but full of love and support. If she wants to be a doctor and be in school for forever, fine by me. If she chooses to love a woman instead of a man, cool, I just hope she can cook, because we all know I cannot. Should she love a man and his skin color not match hers, please Baby Jesus let it be Shemar Moore or Boris Kudjoe, or someone equally as beautiful. Should she chose to shun religion, who am I to tell her what to do with her soul. Should she join a cult, I will find her and burn that motherfucker to the ground, but that's a story for a different day. Point is, I want the utmost happiness for her, whatever that may be. If it makes her happy, it makes me happy.

 

I don't always have to like her decisions and opinions, but I will always, ALWAYS respect them. I catch a lot of flack as a parent because I allow my child to tell me "no." Trust me, I want her to have lots of practice so she's fully prepared to tell it to the senior captain of the football team, even after a few wine coolers at her first high school party. She will always have an opinion in my household because I am 28 years old, and I still do not have an opinion in my parents' household. I will not have that shit in my house. Should her opinion be utter trash and stupid, trust me, I'll tell her, but should she believe in it with passion in her heart and fire in her eyes, I will not stop her no matter how stupid it may seem to me. Like people who want to live in Antarctica and study penguins. Just why in the actual fuck would anybody want to be that cold. Or the armpit sniffer at the deodorant factory. Seriously, just why in the actual fuck? How does one even go about getting a job as an armpit sniffer? Don't respond to that, I really do not care to know the answer.

 

I'm sure I'll enjoy writing this blog more than I should and I'm sure you'll learn more about me than you ever cared to, but I will say this: I will be honest, however disgusting and distasteful and I will not judge. You have a problem with anything I say, leave it in the comments. I hear you. I'm always open to difference of opinions.

 

I'm not sure exactly how long blog posts are supposed to be or how often one is supposed to post a blog. Feel free to tell me to stop at anytime. Also, I'm sure my future blogs will be prettier, with fancy pictures and all that nonsense. Not this one. Sorry.