The Chair

I have this chair that belonged to my grandmother. It’s a terrible almost crushed velvet in emerald green. The arms are well worn and the head rest is covered in years of White Rain hairspray from when she would rock in it while drinking her umpteenth cup of coffee for the day. It was her favorite piece in her living room, and it has now become my favorite piece in my living room.

It was given to me shortly before my grandfather’s passing. As dying people do, he was giving away the less meaningful or not previously claimed items in his possession and gifted me the chair a long with a well loved vanity and two retro end tables. I hadn’t really wanted the chair but he insisted I needed it even though I already had been given my mother’s wooden rocker. I brought the green chair home and sat it up next to one of the end tables in my living room and soon found myself sitting in it frequently. It didn’t take long before I was rocking Robbie in it at nap time. It was comforting. It was almost like having my grandmother there with me, as if she was somehow getting to be with her great granddaughter and I during those precious moments.

Sometime later I moved into my current residence and the chair found itself neglected and covered in unfolded laundry and toys. I had completely forgotten its power and warmth until one evening Josiah was fussy and I was struggling to calm him on the couch. I shoved everything into the floor and took to rocking him. Soon he was softly snoring in my arms. Since that day I have rocked him at almost every bedtime in the chair while telling Zach that we can never get rid of it.

Tonight after putting Josiah to bed, I gathered Robbie up in my lap and rocked her to sleep for the first time in a few years. As she nuzzled her sweet little face into the crook of my arm and drifted off peacefully, I thought of my grandparents and how they couldn’t have known that the chair would make its way into my home and be used to comfort my babies when they purchased it over two decades ago. I thought of my grandmother with her chipped white coffee mugs filled to the brim with microwaved instant Folger’s and a napkin pressed to the bottom of the mug, gently rocking while resting before she would go out to bring the cattle in to milk in the afternoons. I thought of countless hours spent cross legged, computer in my lap, with my phone resting on the arm softly playing music as I typed out stories, read, or studied. I thought of my husband and children and how I want this chair to be significant in their memories when they look back. I thought of how something so ordinary can mean so much, which lead me to share my feelings with you, Dear Reader. If you don’t already, I hope that some day you find an everyday item that has great sentimental value and you reflect on the emotions and memories tied to it.

Kids Suck.

I know, I know, I'm posting later than I usually do. Sorry about that. I have a legit reason though. I usually write/edit on Sunday afternoons, because I'm typically off work. But I wasn't off yesterday. And I'm not sure if it's allergies or a cold, but I started feeling terrible Saturday, so after work yesterday I sat under my heated blanket on the couch and re-watched Making A Murderer.

Can you forgive me? I promise next week I will post on time!

Anyway, I'm watching my kiddo run around the living room, and I keep having this vision of the weird kid at school who runs everywhere...and they run really funny. That is probably Robbie's future, unfortunately. Her dad claims to have been the weird kid, and he is not athletic. I was just generally disliked. I wan't weird, and I was pretty athletic, but I just didn't fit in. Not that I cared, I was too busy listening to the most emo music possible while smearing eyeliner all over my face and spiking up my boy short hair in an attempt to look as "punk" as possible.

I actually looked pretty cute with spikey hair. Just in case you were wondering. And I was a total bad ass.

Anyway I'm telling you all of this is because I was reminded of just how hard school actually was for me, and I hope my daughter has an easier time than I did.

Kids are total assholes, did you know that? I was bullied left and right from elementary all the way up to graduation. In eighth grade, a kid pantsed me in the hallway while I was stapling stuff up on a wall. It was embarrassing, only for the fact that I totally was wearing a thong, and it had been revealed to everyone. My bad reputation was solidified.

*Intercom comes on "That's right classmates, Alex Jones is a confirmed delinquent. SHE WEARS THONGS."* Que the pearl clutching and shocked/distraught gasps.

Thankfully no one, but the jack ass who pantsed me, thought it was funny. Although I'm sure if any of you who witnessed this incident are reading, you're laughing hysterically.

Stop laughing. It still isn't funny.

Okay, maybe it's a little funny now.

In a high school English class, a girl told me how I was single handedly responsible for creating some guy's reputation as a "male slut". I swiftly replied how it was ironic that her family could afford to buy anything they wished for, but they chose not to buy her liposuction after she got fat.

I was the asshole there, and so was everyone else in the class, because they all laughed.

My point is, kids are such jerks, and I'm kind of horrified at what my daughter's future could be like. I know it is many years down the road, but how do I prepare for all the crap she might face? Do I just keep hoping that Robbie will be well liked, a good student, and a nice person? This parenting gig has some really rough stuff you have to deal with, and I often wonder if I will make enough good calls to lead her down a happy, successful road.

I guess we will see what happens, right?

Ahh, Sunday Morning.

Good morning, Dear Reader. It's a lovely Sunday, AND I FINALLY HAVE A DAY OFF FROM WORK!!! I was even able to sleep past my typical 4:45am wake up call, without the help of a sleep aide. I don't know if you can hear it but, there are angels singing songs of rejoice in my honor. It is glorious.

You know what isn't glorious, though? Sleeping next to your toddler.

Per her usual routine, Robbie woke up at 5am, got in our bed, and we all tried to rest peacefully. And at first we managed this. But then I started dreaming about the book I've been reading. (Gary L. Stewart's account of trying to find his birth father, and discovering his father was the Zodiac Killer. Super creepy, but I can't put it down.) Being that I am quite the sissy and couldn't return to sleep, I laid beside my sleeping toddler, quietly, when out of nowhere, the smelliest of smelly toddler feet smacked me right in the face.

Unsure of what to do, for fear I might awaken my child, I just suffered and suffocated under her toes and foot stank. It was awful. But it gets worse. Soon I found my face being crushed by BOTH of her stinky feet. Unable to stand the stench anymore, I rolled over to face away from her. At last I could breathe, and I was beginning to tire, so I decided to go back to sleep.

I'm certain I was starting to snore about the time the kicking to my back began, so I am sure I deserved that. But what came next was unjust. In my half asleep haze, I rolled back over believing I would cuddle with my sweet sleeping baby. But there were no cuddles to be had. Oh no. In place of the cuddles that should have been, my child gave me the gift of possible decapitation. She slashed her arms through the air, coming down directly on my windpipe. Still in fear of waking of the child, I tried to cough and sputter in to the blanket. My attempts were spurned by my child's head butting straight in to my chest. Such action surely left a bruise on my sternum. In my head I screamed in pain, but only bit my lip to keep from crying out and awakening the storm that is my offspring.

Blankets and pillows began to fly as my little darling pelted me with anything that was within her am's reach, and I began to realize that the entire time I believed my child was sleeping wildly, she was in fact very much awake.

I was hurt and insulted by her mischievous behavior, but I was unwilling to get out of my warm bed at the time, so I continued pretending to sleep. It was not long before I was found out, and demands for cereal and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse began. Defeated and battered, I limped into the living room to provide the solution to my child's demands and begin typing this for you, Dear Reader. In the event that I should pass away due to my injuries, or am suffocated by my toddler's beloved blankie at nap time, please remember me as I always was, dramatic, sarcastic, and over caffeinated.

Prayers, Poo, and Coffee.

Today I have a lot on my mind. Which is basically how I am everyday. But today is different. Today I am questioning my choice of going back to work full time. See, at 5 am, Robbie woke up crying. I assume she was cold, despite the mountain of blankets and stuffed animals she keeps in her bed. I can't blame her. I was also under a mountain of blankets and I was cold. Anyway, Cameron put her in our bed and the three of us snoozed peacefully until the alarm clocks started going off an hour later, and then there were demands for "seril, stooms, ohmel, Mitkey, and chocit stawbees mahl" (20 points to Gryffindor if you can translate all of that.) In the midst of the morning demands and the rush to get Cameron out the door for work, I realized at some point Robbie's diaper had leaked all over the place.

*insert mental eye rolls, sighs of exasperation, silent cursing, and a desperate search for the package of diapers*

This is where I started questioning my sanity and my will to provide for my family. My job called to see if I could come in today (Wednesday mornings can get scary over there), and I realized Robbie is almost 2 and a half. Which basically means she should be starting to potty train. And she is. At daycare. Because, I'm.Never.Home.Because.I.Work.ALL.THE.TIME.

I changed Robbie, hung up the phone, and put all of that out of my mind because I was being yelled at for not providing the immediate Mickey Mouse fix my little fiend needed. That is, until shortly before I started writing this, when my sweet little Shugie crouched down, farted so loud the house shook, and dropped the brown note.

Except for she didn't really "drop" anything. It went straight up her back.

I'm going to attribute the upwards motion of the poo to the three or four sips of coffee that were stolen out of my mug while I was fixing breakfast. I assume it was only three or four, but judging by her wild behavior post coffee thievery...it was more. A lot more.

So there I sat, dreading the doom that was contained in my child's pants/shirt. I could only imagine how terrible it would be. I was silently praying to God that he would provide me with magical diaper changing fairies or spontaneous potty training and perfect butt wiping skills for my child. There were thoughts of how I could possibly manage to full potty train my toddler on such little parental availability. There were tears of regret. This was the end.

In my mind, judgement day had arrived. This was my punishment for all of my sins. Eternal damnation and diaper explosions. Hell was real, my friends.

As it turns out, the mess wasn't as bad as I had expected, but the incident has left me with this nagging feeling of failure since I cannot work as diligently on potty training as I'd like (Thank you, workaholic tendencies.) It has also left the foul stench of toddler coffee poo in my living room and I am unsure of how to rid my house of such an atrocious odor.

So there you have it, Dear Reader, the contents of my mind today: Hell, poo explosions, potty training, and why in the world would I choose to return to work before said potty training was over.

Alex Laments. Episode 522.

Well hello, Dear Reader. Fancy meeting you here...I really shouldn't say that. I'm not entirely sure what it means, and obviously you're here because you read, and you like reading what I write. Soooo...

I believe some time ago I had promised I would write more when things calmed down in my life. Unfortunately my life has just gotten crazier and crazier. I finished out my last term in school for the year, in August, while working full time. That was, um, fun? But I did it, and I finished with like a 3.6 GPA. So pat me on the back and tell me I'm special. Because I am special, dammit. Now I'm working all the time. No seriously, like 6 days a week. That has not been fun. But it is necessary. There is hope on the horizon though. My employer has hired more staff, so I shouldn't be at work all the time anymore, and I've been working the job market a little. Pimping out my resume, if you will.

Wait, can you pimp out a resume that isn't impressive? Isn't that the point of putting your goods on the street? Because they're impressive and everyone wants them? I have no idea. My milkshakes DO NOT bring all the boys to the yard, so I'm probably going about this all wrong.

...anyway...I've been searching for gainful employment. Which basically means I've been thinking about how I wish I could work part time while receiving benefits and getting paid at least $1000.00 per hour. #realisticlifesgoal #igotsem. Obviously that is not going to happen. But I really have been considering what to do next, and what will be beneficial in my career path. I think I mentioned before that I had previously been majoring in surgical technology, because I couldn't afford the nursing program, but when the school announced it was closing I decided to pursue a creative writing degree? I still want to do that, but my heart is very much people oriented, and I need face to face interaction with folks to survive. I love people. So I've been tossing around majoring in healthcare admin or maybe a business focus of some sort, and minoring in writing. I mean, I've got to brush up my composition skills if I'm ever going to publish something note worthy. I still need to remind my brothers that I am better than they are and that I'm famous, and they're just butt faces. So a minor in creative writing is important. But trying to figure out my actual career path is hard. My heart  wants to be a healer, my wallet wants to be full, and my soul wants something that has family friendly hours. It's been a rather large task weighing the benefits and downfalls of everything, but doing so has made me realize just how much I really need more balance in my life.

I have NEVER been a balanced person. I zoom from one extreme to the next. I'm a workaholic and I prefer to always be busy. So when I started my current job, of course I offered to step up and work myself in to perpetual sickness (no really, since I started I've caught illness after illness, along with the majority of my coworkers). While this personality trait was a blessing before I had my daughter, it is now a curse. It leaves no room for family life, but it does improve the quality of the little bit of time we get together. The TV is playing more music, and we are all spending our time together instead of vegging out in front of Bob's Burgers re-runs. I just need and want to be home more. I'm missing out on so much. 

This time last year I was waking up to watch the sunrise and drink coffee while Robbie slept peacefully in bed. I was spending afternoons snuggling and playing with my little love. I was cooking every recipe I could get my hands on, and baking a new treat on the weekends. I didn't place enough value on those moments then. I knew they wouldn't last forever, but I didn't realize just how much I would miss them once they were gone. Now I am gone before Robbie or Cameron are awake in the mornings. I get home in just enough time to slap together dinner and spend maybe half an hour playing before it's time to go to bed. There is no meal made out of love. There is no baking. The sunrise is viewed in my rear view mirror. There is no rocking my girl or playing tea party with her. It's a strange place to be in. It isn't miserable. It is just unsatisfying. 

Which is sort of ironic, because this time has taught me so much about myself I didn't know. It has somehow made me into a better mother, a better person, a better student, a better employee, and strengthened my soul and my faith. I find myself almost admiring my growth. I am proud of who I am. 

I just want to enjoy who I've become with the ones I love more. 

So now I'm facing a very the very large project of making a path that will allow me to soak in those special moments again. I have no idea how or where to start, but I am going to make it happen. Some way, some how, I will get that balance that I need between career and family, and I will continue to grow. 

Mom: Why We Love Her.

My mother is pretty cool. She raised three kids completely on her own, is obsessed with health and fitness, teaches Zumba, runs half marathons and 5ks, and places in the top three at the 5ks, has a huge knowledge for crap no one cares about (this must be where I got that talent from), is a gifted writer, is always open to offer up advice about anything, and is the grandmother who sends cards/candy/loud toys to her grandchildren at every holiday because she's out to spoil the kids and drive the parents nuts.

That's a big list of cool stuff to love her for, but that's not even the tip of the iceberg.

This past Thursday was my mom's 58th birthday. It was a good day, but at the same time it was particularly rough. My newest niece was born (that's a good part, obviously), but my grandfather was in the hospital, preparing for a surgery that could have very well ended his life, and then we ate at a Mexican joint that didn't serve margaritas. Terrible, how can you eat fajitas and not wash them down with tequila?! Anyway.

My mom, being herself, had to be everywhere at once. So off to see my brother and his family, we went. She never once let on how stressed she really was, or how she, along with everyone else, was a ball of nerves about Pa's surgery. No, instead she smiled, laughed, took a gazillion pictures, and carried on. She did the same thing, minus the pictures, when we visited Pa. 

On her feet, my Ma is admittedly, not always graceful, just watch her two step after three margaritas and a beer, but that day, she handled EVERYTHING with a grace and strength that can't be taught. Way to go Mom.

The next day was the old man's surgery. And again, everyone else had fear written all over them, but Mom on the other hand, just did her usual; handled all this business, asked questions, went with Pa to pre-op, and did it all without even a ripple in her sea of poise. I don't know how she does it. I sat there next to her just waiting, fidgeting, talking way too much and too fast, and she was calm. 

We love Ma for this. She's the glue that holds our family together. My Grandma passed that position down to my Mom many years ago, and it's a position that fits her well.

Of course there are many other things Madre is special for. For instance, her Adam Sandler version of Good King Winseslas that stops my kid from crying every time, or the rocking chair she let me borrow, that she rocked my brothers and myself in, her homemade chicken and dumplings when I catch a cold (yes 23 years old and Mommy still makes me something to eat when I'm sick), or how she remembers EVERY.LITTLE.THING. the grand kids tell her, and she buys them gifts based on what they told her. She still goes to every ball game and event she can make it to that the grand kids have. She takes amazing care of my Grandpa, her dad, which is hard because he doesn't complain unless he's starving. And the list STILL goes on.

My point for this post is, all moms are special to their families, they/we all bend over backwards at times to take care of everything, but no one has a mom like mine. Mine does it all for everyone. Always has. I know one day she'll tire of being the old bottle of Elmer's and it will be my turn, I just hope I can do half as well as she has. 

It's Only Bed Time!! These Tears Aren't Needed!! Part 2. The Mom Cryer.

Tonight's bed time was exceptionally cry-y (I couldn't think of any real adjectives to fit the situation, so made one.) Typically after I take the baby out of the bath, she cries for a little bit, (This kid LOVES bath time.), and as usual she cried some. But shortly after she calmed down, the dam broke, and dear old mom here just lost it.

It's been an emotionally charged month. Especially the last two weeks. Lots have happened, and then today we had a great event, it was my mama's birthday, and my newest niece was born late this afternoon. (By the way Baby J, the new little, is cuuuttteeee! I'm so excited!)

Seeing this new little teeny tiny made me realize how big my little teeny tiny is, and how small she was. Since she was born I have reminded myself daily to take it all in, to cherish these little times because it will go fast. Thankfully I can enjoy it to the fullest because I'm one of the few lucky moms who get to be home with their babies. But it just seems like I closed my eyes, two months passed, and now there's this big little girl with a head full of hair and the brightest smile, and I just don't know where the time went.

It all just hit me at once. I had rocked her, laid her in her crib, because I thought she was sleepy, then her pretty eyes sprang open, and the smiles and cooing started. I'm not sure what she was telling me about, but she was pretty excited. This is when I started crying.

I think she knew I wasn't really sad, just a little nostalgic, grateful, and a little stressed. So, as if to say something along the lines of "It's okay Mommy, I love you. I'll always be your baby." she gave me a big smile, a few more coos and then snuggled in to sleep.

I really didn't want to leave her side. I wanted her to keep telling me all about it. And I did stand there for a few more minutes and listened to her, but I knew it was bed time and she was clearly fighting sleep. So I turned the light off and stood in her doorway, and she talked for a few more minutes, then sighed really big and was asleep. This made me cry even more. I just love her to pieces.

This kid, she melts my heart. I never really wanted to be a mom, but then baby happened, and man, my life is 1000% fuller and happier with her here. 

I know children aren't for everyone, so I won't say that life really starts when you have kids. But, if you do have babies or will eventually, just remember to hold them tight, give them lots of love and kisses, but don't spoil them, and above all else remember that time goes so fast. So fast, that sometimes you just need to be the mom who stands in their bedroom doorway and cries about how much they love their sweet little miracle.

Becoming A Mom.

Most moms will say that their kids are the best things to happen to them. While some truly mean it, some really don't. For me, it's true my daughter coming into this world was the best thing that could happen.

Having a baby meant becoming a mom. That's not a title everyone deserves. There are women out there who are just worthless, and should not be having kids. I thought I was one of those people. 

Not because I don't care, or am lazy, or some nut job, but because I was selfish, obsessed with structure and control, and while I enjoy a good thrill, the anxiety that went with something new kept me from doing many things I wanted to do. Above all I didn't believe I had the capacity to love myself, much less a child.

Then along came Robbie Jo.

This little girl has changed me. While I'm still very selfish, I willing put her and her needs before me, like a mother should. There are many times I find myself googling all the ways to help her grow and life hacks for motherhood. I still have a need for structure, but control is now a distant, dark memory. It is no longer planning every second of every day and trying but failing to handle my life and emotions. Instead it has become order; aligning myself, my finances, my career goals. I am finding order goes with structure, much better than control ever did. I don't fear the world around me anymore. I am not scared of stepping out of my comfort zone, or the initial stress that comes with all the dreams I've always wanted to chase. But the biggest, most important change is love. 

I had never viewed myself in a positive light. She did away with that. The image I had in my head of my life, and my physical self was negative. But stretch marks, and tiny hands and feet made me realize that it's okay that I didn't go to college right out of high school, any mistakes I made in my past were just that, my past, and being a size 2 isn't going to make me happy.

Opening up my heart to myself made room for my baby and gave me the ability to grow as a person, and a mom. I know I am not done changing, that I will continue to shift and move as she and I both get older, I am ready for it, when the time comes. And one day, when she's old enough to understand, I'll tell her how she changed me and my life for the better. 

Safety In Numbers, At Walmart.

I, like everyone else, hate Walmart. Yes it saves me lots of money, but it's crowded, hot, loud, and full of tweakers. It's not very baby friendly either. Anyway I had to go buy groceries today, and I had to take the baby, by myself.

Yesterday the little lady had to get shots, so she's slept all day today, so I was thinking she would sleep the whole time we were in there, and I wouldn't need a diaper bag. I didn't take I'm the diaper bag. 

BIG MISTAKE.

She was awake the whole time, and thankfully didn't cry. But about halfway through, she pooped. Me being an idiot, I thought from the sound, and smell, that it was just a little gas, and maybe a tiny bit of poo, and it could wait until we got done. I should mention that because of the fussiness and shots she hadn't pooped yet today.

So I finish shopping, go through check out, and rush home, which is less than 5 minutes from Walmart. 

I get home, pull her out of the car seat, and am holding her, gathering up wipes and stuff, and I notice her onesie is a little wet. Okay probably pee, maybe sweat, no big deal. Mind you, I'm wearing A WHITE SHIRT. 

Again, idiot me, I have a kid. You don't wear white with kids.

I lay her down to change her, and realize why exactly that onesie was wet. That little bit of gas was a massive super poo that was long over due for the day. It filled the diaper, leaked out the sides, and was ALL OVER the car seat. How I missed that when I pulled her out, I don't know. Thankfully it didn't get on my white shirt, but now I'll never wear white again.

Boy she was proud of herself. And now I'm completely one thousand percent sure that you NEVER go into Walmart without the diaper bag, and you NEVER EVER go into Walmart without an extra person to go change that super poo or finish your shopping.

And don't wear white shirts.

Music To My Ears...sort of.

So today I had to take a long trek across the great wide state highway with the baby. She did well in the car, but I had a thought as I jammed out to Sia's "Chandelier" and Gemini Syndrome's "Stardust" back to back for the gabillionth time, because that's apparently all Sirius felt like playing on Hits and Octane today.

Is this really the crap I want my kid to grow up on? Songs by a creepy looking possibly albino guy who's live show, was not that impressive, (he really is creepy looking, YouTube, Gemini Syndrome, look it up.) and some about swinging from chandeliers and the lyrics sound as though some one doesn't know what number comes after three?

But it gets better. All of this was followed by, dun dun dun, freaking Jason Derulo. *insert eye roll/face palm here* If you know me, you know I'm no fan of Jason and his songs about trumpets and ham sammiches. I don't like ham sammiches. Maybe if his songs were about tuna salad sammiches, or a philly steak sammy, I'd be a fan.

Anyway, I started wondering, what happened to the days of good music? By good I mean mostly clean, and not saying things like "Disregard females, acquire currency.", except with the f-bomb, and the B word, *Thank you Paige, for that one*, and no auto tune or reverb. Ya know, when you actually had to sing.

Then my thought got deeper.

What if she doesn't like all the classic rock/country/pop/heavy metal/show tunes/Elvis that I listen to? What if one day she tells me "Mom, Led Zeppelin sucks, and Conway Twitty is lame. I will only listen to the Billboard hits, and HipHop Nation on Sirius. By the way Five Finger Death Punch is a stupid band name." What do I do then?! Just let her listen junk about twerking on table tops and driving cars with names that I can't even spell? Or worse. What if she likes Steel Panther? =|. (YouTube Steel Panther, your ears will bleed, and you'll be offended, but you'll get my point.)

This is a real concern. I love music, and I want her to love music too, just not the crap that is, well, crap. I'm trying to educate her young, but she already hates show tunes, so I think this ship was doomed to sink from the beginning. Who doesn't live show tunes? Is this kid even human?

Now I know how my mom felt when I made her listen to all my "noise". And my kid isn't old enough to listen to "noise" yet...Lord help me, my ears hurt already.