Then I Cried...The Ugly Cry

Tonight my son said, “I love you, Mom”. 

Unprompted.  Unscripted.  Out of the blue, with a hug.  This may not seem like a big deal to you, it may be something you hear everyday from your child.  But I don’t hear that everyday.  Only a few months ago did I hear those words for the first time ever from my five year son with Autism.  Usually he will say, “Love you” after I say, “love you buddy”.  And I was completely content with that little miracle.  But he has never, ever said that to me without me saying it first.  I was just making cheeseburgers and bam!  He does love cheeseburgers.

I’ve been crying for two hours.  Bad too.  I’m talking the ugly cry.  I’m paralyzed by bliss.  Funny that the people I can’t wait to share it with most tomorrow are his therapists.  They are more like our extended family; they are my rock and lifeline.  I am so grateful for them.  These miracles, these moments make all the sacrifice worth it.  But I love you makes everything in life worth while.

Tonight my son said, “I love you, Mom”. 

And I said a prayer of thanks for all the opportunity that my family and son has been given and think of those less fortunate, and of those who may never hear those words.  To be very honest I think this moment of wonderful was actually a moment of grace from the big guy upstairs.  As of late, I’ve been having quite the pity party when it comes to Autism.  My son got pulled from his mainstream pre-school classroom to back to Special Education.  He cannot tolerate the noise of 17 children and struggles to stay regulated the entire two hours.  I’ve also come to grips with the fact that he will be in a special education classroom in the fall for Kindergarten.  I know it is for the best, it just isn’t what I wanted for him.  It is hard to relinquish that control over our children’s life and do what is best for them, rather than what we want them to do. 

Tonight my son said, “I love you, Mom”. 

And I could die happy.  Autism has taught me to lead a life of simplicity and find calm and stillness. Seems contradictory when you think of everything we do.  I still have my moments of crazy, pretty often actually.  What can I say, the blog cleans up the mess.

I don’t know much, nor am I an expert on anything.  I’m hardly an expert on my own life. But I do know the exact reason I was put on this Earth was to be that kid’s Mom.  Nobody could do it better than I.  I will fight for him until my dying day.  I don’t have any great wisdom to impart; I actually just prefer to make you all smile. 

For all the parents reading that have “typical” or “normal” children, just realize that not all the bad moments in life are bad.  When your child lies to you, it’s a blessing, because they CAN.  When they have a meltdown at the checkout counter because they aren’t getting candy, embrace that as a blessing because they aren’t melting down because the fluorescent lights are buzzing.  Having temper tantrums for not getting what you want is normal.  When your child says, “will you play with me”, stop what you are doing and play because they can ASK.  Blessings aren’t disguised in life; we only choose to open our eyes and see them or ignore them and want for more.

My hope for you today is that you can find that moment of grace that will fill your heart and soul.

Things You Should Never Say To Me: A Triad Post

Every now and then in life, roads and circumstances will converge in such perfect union that is unexplainable.  That is not my life, ever.  But it is the Bitchery Triad.  {3 snarky bloggers+ 1post from each on the same ridiculous topic= Bitchery Triad}  How does one do three go about composing a follow up to Five Reasons I'm Smokin' Hot?  Booze and procrastination seem to be the ticket.  Without further adieu:

Five Things You Should Never Say To Me:

Rise & Shine:

Those two words might get you seriously injured.  To say I’m not a morning person is probably an understatement.  It really is a good thing I love my kids because that alarm clock, “mom…mom..momomoamamammommyymmmooom” would get any other person my laser eye.  Alright on occasion everyday, it gets them the laser eye.  The laser eye has been known to perfectly toast a piece of bread, so I guess it could really be considered multi-tasking.

Don't Sugar-Coat It:

I covered this in my last post.  But I would rather you be brutally, in a tactful way, honest than lie to me. A perfect example, a dude spews the line, "you're too good for me".  Yes, I am.  However, that would be some kind of sugar-coated crap.  Let's get real here.  By saying that, we have determined you have zero self-esteem, which makes me wonder why I was attracted to you anyway.  I am not some frail princess who can't handle the truth, if you don't like me, out with it.  Do I stalk you or scare you?  Tell me.  Maybe the two times you caught me outside your house peering in your window were weird, but seriously, I was on a walk.  So dudes, knock it off, just say you're not interested or you're scared; making excuses to try not to hurt my feelings is sort of lame.

You're Not That Old

Let me take a moment to dissect and analyze that statement.  It is the ‘THAT’ I have a problem with.  If one were to take the word “that” out of the equation, I would get, “you’re not old”.  I like that.  “You’re not THAT old”, would imply that I am indeed old, just not driving an electric scooter.  

I am about to hit the ‘descent’ portion of the airplane ride of life here, which typically speeds up.  Instances were  “you’re not THAT old” would not be an acceptable reference: my dating life, men, love, wrinkles, grey hairs, undiagnosed peri-menopausal hot flashes, my love for aprons or that I remember the 80’s and was not born in the 80’s.  And actually any other time ever really.

Shout out to the kid at the Kwiky-Mart who carded me to buy a lottery ticket.  I meant what I said, if I win, half is yours, sweet, sweet innocent child.

You Look So Sweet and Nice

Fangs under the lip gloss

Alright, I'm going to level with you; I am for the most part sweet and nice, but I didn't get into this Triad for having the most Girl Scout Badges.  When provoked or caught un-caffeinated I can get a tad irritable.  Do not let the Sugar & Spice appearance fool you friends, my mouth spews unsolicited advice, and sass on a whim.  Once, I was even referred to as the Axis of Evil; and not by my Ex-husband who can indeed vouch that I bite.  Venom.  Ssssst.  Yes, that’s right.  Puppies are cute too, but we all know how they can wreak havoc.

The "R" Word


Now as a Mama of a child with special needs,  do not ever, ever, ever use the word “retard” or “retarded” in any form.  By using the “R” word you are perpetuating ignorance and making you look ill-mannered, unintelligent and discriminatory.  There is no joke where that word would be acceptable.  If I hear you speak it, I will confront you.  If I read you wrote it, most likely I will never read you again.  Capeesh?  Thank you.

Now for the homework assignment:

1) Like the Bitchery Triad's Facebook Page, seriously some crazy stuff happening over there.

2) Go read my partner's in crime:  Christina and Marjorie's Top 5, or 4, who knows if they laid off the booze long enough to get to 5.

3) Tell me what someone, or I, should never say to you.

A Real Friend Will Tell You To Knock It OFF! {and Mom Jeans}

This post IS about friendship; however, it is not a warm and fuzzy post.  I'm talking about real friendship.  The friend that will always be there for you and always tell you the things you don't want to hear.  There are many people in this world who are more than willing to tell you the bad stuff, but when someone we care about tells us; it can invoke change.  I was recently tagged in a Facebook uh, note, whatever...tagged, with the Friendship Oath and this rang more true than the snugly, make you bawl your eyes out cards; which are indeed necessary and appreciated as well.  Good to find a balance I think.  These were obviously written by a girl, I'm not sure about the intricacies of dude friendship, and I'm not good at it.  I'll let you read a few of my favorites, then a true story to follow:

1. When you are sad ~ I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

2. When you are blue ~ I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

3 When you smile ~ I will know you are thinking of something that I would probably want to be involved in.

4. When you are scared ~ I will rag on you about it every chance I get until you're NOT.

5. When you are worried ~ I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be until you quit whining.

6. When you are confused ~ I will try to use only little words.

7. When you are sick ~ Stay the heck away from me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.

8. When you fall ~ I will laugh at your clumsy ass, but I'll help you up.

9. This is my oath.... I pledge it to the end. 'Why?' you may ask ~ because you are my friend.

{Not sure who wrote this, I googled it for 5 minutes and it's everywhere, it's brilliant, kudos to the author.}

I think we all have a friend like that.  I'm lucky and blessed to say I have a few. That friend will also listen to you cry for hours, hold your hair, be at your doorstep in your time of need, have the perfect words at the perfect time and tell you if you really should or should not wear the bikini.  Everyone deserves a friend like that.  But here is where it gets tricky.  In order to have that open, honest, pee in your pants funny kind of friendship, you have to be able to take the bad and move on without grudges.  You have to know it's coming from a loving place.  This is where something I like to call "tact" comes into play.  You have a 50/50 shot in the tact department with me, but I will tell you if your glittery eye shadow makes you look like a Bratz doll.  Not because I'm mean, because I care.  Because leg warmers and smocks aren't cute.  More than likely if I don't think they are cute, the boyfriend you complain you don't have won't think they are cute either.

So I talk the big talk like I'm perfect and stuff, right?  Mostly.  But I got a "talking to" of this nature of the worst kind and it stung.  Oh, it still stings.  I share because I care people, my embarrassment for your entertainment.  Now I am friends with all age groups, from 21 to 81.  This particular friend happened to be on the 21 end of the spectrum, which almost made me disregard the chat entirely.  I consider myself mildly fashionable, pretty cute, up to date; I'm not sporting a side pony-tail or anything velour.  I was wearing my more dressy jeans, if you will.  Please tell me I am not the only one with dressy jeans, Ann Taylor Loft, sometimes you can't wear jeans and you don't want to wear dress pants...dressy jeans.  Since I couldn't very well steal the photo, you will have to click the link to the exact dressy jeans I speak of.  I wouldn't dare post a picture of myself in the jeans, because my photo would be SEO'd or flagged or whatever for "Mom Jeans" and I can't have that.  Conversation went like this:

Friend: Cari, those pants are dangerously close to Mom Jeans.

Me: {Shrieking, babies crying, Blasphemy, head whip, you talkin' to me 'cuz I know you're not talkin' to me, I hate you} What?

Friend: Yep, dangerously close to the belly button.

Me:  {What! At this time I go to fetch a ruler, no joke} What is the "mom jean" standard?  I have over an inch and a half from the top of the jeans to the belly button, more like two, definitely two.

Friend:  I'm just sayin'.

Me:  I'd measure your ass crack to top of your jeans, but I don't want to contaminate my ruler.

We hugged it out.  Now as much as that stung, I know she was coming from a loving place.  She knows I would be mortified if I were wearing Mom jeans.  And honestly friends, looking at those pictures on the Ann Taylor website, I can see it a little.  But I need to look a little classier sometimes, it's not like they are acid washed teetering in ankle territory. 

So having a real friendship is being able to take the criticism and know it's coming from a loving place.  Can people be mean and cruel? Of course they can.  But friends won't let friends make an idiot of themselves.  I appreciate friends like that.

Now I pose these questions to you dear readers:

1) Do you have a friendship like this?  Do you appreciate unsolicited truth from a friend?

2) Was I wearing Mom jeans? Seriously, I need to know this.  

If You're Stabby And You Know It, Write A Post!

I have been in a deep funk the last week.  Not just a regular funk, or PMS funk, but a contemplating if jail or a law suit is really so bad if I punch someone and might need medication funk.  What gives?  Spring has sprung, the snow has melted, babies are being born {not mine}, and so shouldn't I be twirling on the hillside like Maria, you know hills are alive, etc.?  But I don’t sing, no one should have to hear that, I do wear an apron though.  

In researching my post, seems it's not just me.  Almost everyone I come into contact with starts by saying, "I'm not having a good day".  Now usually I'd crack a joke or rely on my bubble gum optimism; but I just respond with, "yeah, I pretty much hate everyone".  Except for you, dear readers, never you.

I'll admit, if I wanted to rationalize my stabbiness I could: IEP meetings, regression on the Autism front, Daylight Savings Time which is never fun with a kiddo with special needs that rely on routine {whomever thought up daylight savings is first on my punch list}, or a myriad of issues with my kid's Dad.  But this list is nothing new, that’s my life, it’s never made me this way before.

Maybe I'm just getting old?  Well of course I’m getting old; maybe I’m growing into my oldness. I see why there are "grumpy old men" and women, because they are sick of putting up with nonsense.  Seriously, I have no time for nonsense right now...none.  And let me clarify, there is a difference between fun and nonsense.  I like fun.  Fun is good.  Nonsense would include stupid drama, something ridiculous someone or a politician said, people not thinking before acting and then wondering why they have consequences for their actions.  That sort of nonsense.  So am I just old and crabby?  Perhaps I'm older and wiser?

Maybe it's a virus.  My household avoided getting the stomach flu or influenza this year, so did I catch the stabby bug?  Does the virus eat up all my tolerance for anything and everything?  It must also make magnify children's screeching and whining resembling the nails on chalkboard effect.  The virus also must have affected my neuron blockers {I totally don't know if that is anything, I made it up} so that I am immediately defensive, critical and dismissive.  It obviously affected my corneas because everyone pretty much looks sketchy too.

I know someone is going to tell me to get outside in the sun.  This could be a serious case of vitamin D deficiency. That’s not uncommon in the arctic regions here.  But I'm trapped at work, in the rat race and daycare and homework and dinner...its dark by the time I get home most days.  Also, I am whiny a lot lately too, just in case you didn’t notice.

I don't know how I'm going to get this funk to lift, but I need to figure something out.  At this point I shouldn't be allowed around sharp objects. 

Friends, how are you feeling?  Anyone else got the stabby bug?  How do you lift the funk?

Disclaimer:  This is a satirical post, I shouldn't have to say that, but somebody is going to think I'm really going to stab someone and that would be NONSENSE!

The Morning After...A Blog Post

Well this is awkward.  I do the walk of shame to my computer.  I sit down to write a follow-up post to a previous successful post...on soup of all things.  I hate the morning after blog post.

The morning after post will never be as funny, and maybe people don't expect it to be, {or maybe they do?}and maybe I don't really care {but maybe I should, what's wrong with me?}.  Alas, I don't.  But nonetheless, no matter what I write, today it will be like you're reading the obituaries.  Death of a blog.  I can't very well follow up with something serious, and if I try to write something funny, it'll look like I'm trying too hard.  That would just be painful for the both of us.  So what is a writer to do?

I just called myself a writer, that's funny.  No really, I seriously laughed out loud.

Look, I'm just going to avoid the awkwardness for both of us and call this the buffer post.  You'll choke it down and the reality will hit you that I am indeed some sort of one hit wonder of the blog world and I'll be back to regular mediocrity tomorrow. No expectations from me; we're both adults.  Or at least I claim to be even though I rarely act as such.

We are NOT breaking up, I'm still going write, you're still going to read. We should just tuck that little post in our memory banks {or block it out} and remember the good times and the laughs, or dry heaves as it were. All good things must come to and end.

Thanks to all my loyal and wonderful blog friends.  This isn't the end, no, no.  I'm just a tweet away if you need me.  If you leave a comment, I'll call you reply; really I will.  More than likely you'll get better turnaround here than if you call me on the phone.  See you in a few days, I'll try to come up with something entertaining and much less soupy.

Alrighty.  Good talk.

Do you dread the morning after post?  Could be said for writing or reading.  Better yet, let's not talk about it anymore and tell me what you are looking forward to the most this week, or your favorite color or something.

If You Make This, I Will Hunt You Down

So just in case you live under a rock, and haven't ever heard me mention my homegirl, Solitary Mama, she is doing a hilarious Anti-Blogger series on things not to blog about. {Oh,  maybe you’re new here, welcome, sorry this is the first post you’re reading} The newest Anti-Blogger post is on recipe thievery, or just plain bad recipes, check it.

The response to her recipe post was overwhelming, and by that I mean, three or four of us were rolling and tossing around the idea of writing our very own bad recipe post.  Solitary caved to the pressure and put a link up on her site.  Daddy’s In Charge even did TWO: One and Two {you have to click #2 the Linky list on Solitary's post}. Overachiever.

So  I was in the middle of writing my cup o noodles post and I knew, I had to blog Octopus soup.  Now Octopus soup is a completely stolen recipe, but I will site it for good measure, I've also changed the wording to the directions as to match the absurdity of the photo.  Now before I astound you, this is an actual recipe that I saw on a  blog a while back.  No .Lie.  I have been laughing and gagging about it for weeks.  Behold:

Octopus Soup:  Intermediate, according to All-Recipes

I've Never Ever Made This

Ingredients

·                                 1 (16 ounce) package hot dogs

·                                 2 (48 ounce) containers chicken broth

·                                 1 1/2 cups chopped fresh chives

If the ingredients alone haven’t made you start dry heaving, read on.

Directions:

• Open your pack of hot dogs, which aren't particularly good for you anyway.  If you must, use some that don’t include fillers, perhaps the packaging might then include the word “natural”.  Steer clear of hot dogs labeled, “almost natural”, “1/3 less filler”, “made in China”.

• This will require a sharp knife, butter knife, Swiss army, whatever you have on hand.  Slice it up, whoa, whoa, wait and don’t go crazy, leave a nub at the top for the head.

• Gather chives and broth.  I’d probably go fresh on the chives here, the dried variety might have an unsettling crunchy texture.  My guess is if you’re making this treat for someone you “love”, you aren’t going with the homemade, organic, or even low-sodium broth. I assume you need to fetch the can opener and go to town.  Throw your chives and broth in a pot and boil it.  MMMMM, yummy, nothing like scalding hot chive-broth.  Pour said boiling broth into a bowl, oh, wait, it's soup now, I mean pour your soup into a bowl, plop in your hot dog and watch the magic…the jangly legs will curl and viola, an octopus.

Now if it were me, I might toss in some goldfish, just so my kids wouldn't starve, maybe some Swedish fish for dessert.

AHOY matey, a soup fit for a pirate.  Indeed. 

Disclaimer:  If you make this for yourself or for your kids, I will call Bobby Flay and his Food Network Posse to come hunt you down.

Now go have some fun and blog your worstest easiest recipe and link up over at Solitary Mama.  

The Lies I Tell Myself...

I think everyone lies to themselves a little bit.  Oh these pants aren't too tight, no body will care if I wear my jammies to the Wal-Mart, they won’t notice if I’m gone, {here’s the Mack daddy}  I’ll do it tomorrow.  Whoa, whopper and we've all said it knowing there is a slim to none chance of follow through.   We tell our selves these little lies so we won’t go postal, or in my case maintain some semblance of a normal life.

So if I haven’t told you, I’m on a quest for inner peace.  I think I’m like ¾ of the way there, give or take.  Believe what you want.  This means a lot of self-examination; especially after I open my sassy mouth; but I digress. So I’ve come to terms with a few lies I tell myself and why I need to start being honest with myself:

Mr. Right Is Out There and I’ll Find Him Someday

Maybe.  I haven’t given up hope.  But I have come to terms with the fact that he might not be out there.  I still have like 40 years or so.  You see in order to be happy, I have to be okay with that.  I am okay with that.  If I spent my time or energy in the “waiting room’ I’d be missing out on so many other things.  I already think people don’t complete each other, they complement each other.  I don’t need anyone to make me happy; I have to do that for myself.  I'd have to say, I'm pretty doggone happy too.  At this point any man that can tolerate my snark {and alarming natural beauty} and that I can spend more than an hour with, without rolling my eyes twenty times, will just be icing.

I’ll Have More Kids Someday

Oh wait...I'm good.

I have two beautiful children, for whom I thank God everyday.  Selfish to want more, but I can’t help myself.  While I was still married, as I sat in the doctors office receiving my son’s Autism diagnosis, I remember the words, “please don’t let me be pregnant, please don’t let me be pregnant” run through my head.  I thought I was pregnant, but a blessing in disguise I wasn’t.  I don’t think it would’ve been something I could’ve handled, it would’ve torn me apart as I already felt like I was sinking in a unknown sea a named Autism.  Now, I’m older and wiser and know the ropes and think I could handle more children and allow myself to think…maybe.  But truth be told, I’m not getting younger, right I know, what kind of crap is that?  Things will only get riskier, my eggs are planning for retirement and I have to accept that that may not happen naturally for me.  I didn’t know I could have heartache for something that is just a glimmer of hope.  My kids just fill me with so much joy, I'm a junkie, I need more.

You Cannot Melt Cellulite

I’ll never forget the day I read the words, “cellulite…genetic…never goes away…no cure…”  It’s all a blur, all I remember is the tequila.  For years I have fell prey to the snake oil salesman, buying the magic cellulite crap cream, doing 9 bazillion lunges, and crazy yoga contortions.   The only hope there is out there is liposuction and airbrushing, and both cost money, money I don’t have.  Alright, I’ll get off the subject before you start stabbing the computer screen; sorry to be the bearer of bad news. 

I Can Be Friends with My Ex

Lie.  I think I’ve lied to myself longer than I should on this one.  It was for the kids after all.  I’m divorced for a reason,  if he changed or made some amazing transformation we might still be married; and my life is not a 90 minute happily ever after movie, so what am I thinking?  I was married to this person for 9 years, we still know how to push each others buttons, and as much as healing has occurred there will always be scars.  So friends, no; I’ve been burned one to many times here.  But friendly I can do.  Texting, simple hi and byes I can do. {You have no idea how much I edited this puppy down}

I'm Crazy or I'm Not Crazy

I am both the poster child and the self-proclaimed referee for all things crazy.  If you're going to say something crazy that makes no sense, I'll be the one to point it out to you.  On the flip side, rarely anything I say makes much sense.  Conundrum.  Have you ever said this to your friends, "is it just me?"  Loosely translated, that fool is the crazy one and I'm normal right?  Naturally only your best friends would tell you you're crazy and crazy people or people that want to shut you up would agree you're not crazy. You can't argue with crazy people either, that gets you nowhere.  Jury is still out, I may or may not be crazy. 

I’m Smokin’ Hot

Oops, typo, I still believe that one!

Are there any lies you tell yourself?  Go on, let the healing begin.