Some love for his Ma.....

Any of you that read this blog with any regularity know I've got it bad for my kids.

They are, frankly, the best kids ever.

(don't noooo-body be actin a hater and say to themselves (or to me via private message) " her (your) kids ain't kids" or some other such nonsense..yer kids are yer kids are yer kids..matters not if they wear dentures and have gray hair or get a senior citizen discount...they still be yer kids...so shove a donut in yer pie hole and move on)

(I apologize for the above statement, it's early and I'm obviously crabby)

Allow me to get sidetracked here for a moment...

I took a little tumble down a few flights of stairs steps the other morning, I guess it was more of a slip-n-slide rather than a tumble.

When Bear didn't wake up (not to find me in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, mind you...NO, neither he or (that hard sleepin) Daddio of his heard the earth move nor felt the house shake...)

Whatever.....

Serves me right, if you're gonna fall down the stairs you should do it when people are awake, can witness, or at least her your cries of "Double-U-Tee-Eff", and appropriately feel really sorry for you.

So, as I lay alone on the floor, soaking wet (not only from pissin my drawers, as luck would have it I happen to be carrying a cup of water, which ended up dripping down my back, and running into my eyes. It soaked the front of my nightgown, from the top to the bottom, it also made a mess of the floor and wet the small rug that was near enough to catch some of the water)

(How the hell an inch of water could wreck such havoc and make such a mess, I'll never know)

So as I lay on the floor, soaking wet...and feeling incredibly sorry for myself, I did a quick inventory of my nearly 43 (my blog, my addition) year old bones.. they all felt in one piece, except for my tailbone.

Which ached like the dickens.

My trusty pooch noticed me laying there...she came, sniffed the situation, slurped up a bit of the water on the floor near my hand and waited (not so) patiently for me to notice that she was doing her pee-pee dance.

Once up I hobbled to the bathroom mirror, hiked up my nightgown, and surveyed the damage.

There didn't appear to be any.

(I'll have to see what Google has to say about invisible bruises)

No outward signs of damage... hmmm.

Well, I have then no explanation as to why I'm hurting so.

Anyway, back to my kids, my wonderful children.

Last night I sent Bear to the market to fetch some coffee filters.

I set up the coffeepot, placed a cup of fresh grounds nearby, added the proper amount of water, hit the "Delay" button so I'd wake up to the aroma of a fresh pot of Folgers.

I asked Bear to add the filter, then the grounds.

This morning I woke just the way I imagined..

I walked (very carefully) down the (steep, slippery sonofabeep) stairs.

Bear had followed all instructions and my pot of coffee was ready and waiting for me.

He'd also written me a lovely "coffee pot" note...

One of my favorite things ever..

A note from my treasured youngest son.

I could hardly contain myself as I limped (remember the big fall, right) to the light to better read the coffee pot "love note"....

"Good Morning" it said simply...

(Hey Y-O-U negative nellie naysayers you, you all know the rules here, right?... My blog, My take on shit).....

Gas money to you all....make it a great day!!!

The "F" word......

Food.... is the bain of my existence.

It's a love hate kind of thing.

Since I was a little girl I've loved to cook, or maybe it is feeding people that I like.

Food is love you know.

Daddio has been known to say that I lured him into a relationship with me by feeding him some delicious fried chicken.

He claims that once I hooked him, I never made it like that again.

His description of the bone dry chicken has me thinking that it was horribly overcooked and over seasoned and that once I figured out how to do it properly I was never able to duplicate the mistake.

When I was expecting the Sweet Prince Buttercup I wanted Daddio to support my decision to nurse. I told him all kinds of horrible things about baby formula.

He was all on board.

His support was especially apparent when he would give me a shove at 12 am and 2am and 4am and 6 am to let me know the baby was crying and I (or rather my boob) was being summoned.

Daddio likes to eat too...a lot.

He will gladly tell you that he nearly starves to death every weekend, when were not on a schedule.

I do feed him about every two hours, just like a newborn.

I've even offered to try and get him an IV that could pump the food 24/7...that's the kind of good wife that I am.

Yeah...Daddio likes to eat, but he doesn't like to cook.

Once when the kids were small I left them with him to attend a bridal shower.

I'd planned to be gone only a couple of hours, but it drug on and on (like they alllllways seem to do) and I was gone for the better part of the afternoon.

When I got home the gang was waiting for me...they were pale and lethargic.

"I thought we were going to starve to death" Daddio said.

The kids just whimpered.

Too weak to lift their tiny heads.

"We ate bread" Daddio continued.

"Bread?"

"All you fed them all day was the entire loaf of bread?" I asked holding up the empty bag.

Oh brother.

At work I'm all about food too.

Planning menus, grocery shopping, feeding hungry people.

Food is love you know.

Tonight, after I'd filled the coffee pot (with some liquid food) and plugged in the cell phones I decided to write the kids a note and tell them goodnight.

"Your mama loves you" I wrote.

I added x's and o's and little bubbly hearts.

This morning when I went for my coffee I could see a note sitting next to the pot.

I grabbed my coffee and the note.

I expected to see some expression of love.

And I guess I did.

It read.....

Hugo (the hamster) needs food.

Haley (the cat) needs food.

Trouble (Googie's other half) needs food.

Food is love you know.

And dammit...

I AM LOVED..... ;-)

"Sparkle Shirley...... Sparkle"

What a whirlwind weekend. Googie had a show and I agreed to do the hair. The poor dear was sick (any relationship between massive amounts of stress and frequent colds and infections?).

She had the lead in a silly little musical called Urinetown.

It’s about pee.

I sat in the audience on Saturday, with a couple of nuns sitting to my left. I cringed a bit when I saw them walk in and take a seat. Not like it was me on stage singing about pee or anything, but I knew what lyrics were coming and I know a little bit about nuns.

No matter how it’s cut, nuns and pee never mix, not even in the same sentence.

From my vantage point I could see by their posture they were quite stoic… I think an uncomfortable squirm would have not have been as bad. But nothing. No movement. Deathlike stillness.

Oh well, it is called Urinetown…..

On Sunday I sat in the audience as well. This time there were a couple of blue hairs (old biddies, not young punks) sitting in front of me a bit to my left. When the character Penelope Pennywise uttered her first “pee”, one blue hair nudged the other. I watched to see what they would do next….(yes, I was missing a portion of the play, but Googie didn’t have a big part in that song and I was dying to know what the biddies were gonna do when Penny belted “piss” and “defecation”).

Sure enough, the minute the word “piss” left Pennywise’s mouth the ladies looked at each other and both shrugged their shoulders. And then shook their heads.

Looked like Two Thumbs Down to me.

After intermission, their seats were empty.

Too bad they left, Urinetown was really funny.

I’ve acted as Googie’s personal dresser for as many years as she has done theater. I don’t dress her, really, I just help with her microphone, or her bobby pins or I just look her over and give her the a-okay.

A last minute hair fluff and a peck on her painted cheek.

Lastly I take a line from my favorite stage mother and I say.... “Sparkle Shirley... sparkle”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

( "SPARKLE SHIRLEY...SPARKLE" : Shirley Temple's mother's instructions from the side of the stage.)

Then I sit in the audience and enjoy.

This day, she stripped off her top, I handed her the starched pastel yellow costume she wore for the show.

She slipped it on and I did a double take.

Googie’s brassiere was showing through the shirt.

She called to her cast mates and asked if anyone had a tank top she could borrow. One girl agreed to take her own right off her back and give it to Goog.

Once on Googie’s little 94 pound body it hung like a sack and it was much too bunchy to fit properly under her costume.

Okay…now what?

I knew what.

Later in the audience it was a bit hard for me to breath.

Not just that my heart swelled to take in the wonder that is my daughter,

but it was hard to breath wearing Googie’s too small bra.

I couldn’t let her go on stage, the lead in a show called Urinetown, wearing a pea colored bra that showed through her shirt.

A mother’s suffering knows no bounds.

(And for what’s worth, this is the SECOND time I’ve done this for my daughter…at least this time her bra size was larger than a size AA.)


PS....Her most sincere appreciation via this coffee pot note (and some stalks of beautiful white flowers, stolen from the restaurant where they ate after the show) made it all worth it, of course.

A Bear tale x's 2.........

The Easter Bunny Gets Duped....

Daddio and I always wanted three children. We both come from families with that number of children. After we had the Sweet Prince Buttercup (who by himself counted as 10 children) and his lovely sister GoogieMonster we decided that 11 was a good number to stop at.

Then my brother John died. And there were only two (earthly) children for my mother to hold.

And faced with the reasoning that if (God forbid) something should happen to my sister that would leave only me..one child for my mother to hold,

inconceivable,

unacceptable,

and so Daddio and I went back to plan A and created child #3...

Child #3, my most cuddly. The one most likely to allow his mother (even at his advanced age) to maul him half to death.

Every mother should have one of him.

I've been known to say a time or two that on those occasions when I may doze off on the couch while watching the tube and should feel myself being covered with a small blanket...I know who's gentle hands will be doing the covering.

Baby # 3.

"That kid's got you soooo wrapped around his little finger" Googie accuses.

"Duped!!!".

Googie, don't be a hater.

Your brother is a nice guy.

When I woke up the morning of my last big (B I G ) birthday next to the coffee pot I found this...

The other side of the mug says "I Love You Mom".

Since a gift this thoughtful usually comes from Googie, I gave her all the credit.

I later learned it was from Bear and was touched by his effort.

On Easter Sunday I found a small bag filled with brightly colored paper grass. Inside the bag there were a couple of mini peanut butter cups and this....

A hand decorated hard boiled egg. On the other side it said "MOM".

When I hopped into Googie's room singing "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" (You should see how mad they get when I do crap like that. tee-hee) at the top of my lungs early on Easter morning with her basket hanging from my arm, I thanked her for the beautiful decorated egg.

Later when Bear came down into the kitchen he asked me how I liked my egg.

"Oh" I said "I loved it".

"Yeah, me and Mal made it for you" he replied.

"Your sister made me that egg. don't lie" I scolded.

"I made that egg" he insisted.

Of all my kids, #3 is the most likely to tell a tale, stretch a truth, bald face lie (while looking me straight in the eye).

"I made the egg!!! " came a voice from the bathroom.

"She didn't make that damn egg, I did" Bear said starting to get mad.

"Look at me" I demanded "did you make that egg???"

His face was as straight as it's ever been.

"Yes, I did" he said again.

"No he didn't" came the bathroom voice again "I did".

Baby boy shook his head no.

I peeked around the corner to see Baby #3's sister...she had her head down on the sink, pounding, with her palm, laughing her guilty lyin azz off.

Googie...Googie how could you?

I am loved.....

Okay, so I do have hearts for iris's when I look at my son, but when he leaves notes like this...

you would too.

Later when I put on my reading glasses and took a closer look....

I got Googie's point.

Awwwww....it was nothin.

I have this freakish character flaw that has to do with gratitude.

I like to be appreciated. I mean, I REALLY like to feel appreciated.

I cleaned my kid's room last night. Mostly because I knew she was sick and tired and that she likes to be in a clean room. She normally does a heavy cleaning every week, but this past week has left her with barely enough time to catch an appropriate amount of zzzz's. Which is probably why she is sick in the first place.

She started a new semester at school, started a new job, started a new internship and is currently working on three separate shows...whewwww, it's making me tired just typing these few details of her past week.

I went to bed before she came home last night so I didn't get the big bear hug and sweet peck on my cheek that she would usually hand me when I delight her with a love slave gift of this proportion (that room was a sty*...not to mention the huge pile of snotty tissues littering the floor, the bed,  and the dresser that I disposed of).

This morning next to my coffee pot was a note from my girl....

12 whole "Thank you's" !!!!!!

 WOW....

She gets me......she REALLY gets me.

*It wasn't really all that bad...I tend to like to exaggerate a bit on occasion. :-)