The greatest joy of life is to become a parent. The joy of having more than one child is the jealousy and rivalry. Oh how much I love watching them fight ALL THE TIME. My son is very affectionate and playful. My daughter is Haphephobic and very vocal. This mean there is a constant background shriek in my house. Son tries to play with daughter by poking her side (even though he knows she will scream at the top of her little lungs) and daughter then screeches like she is being stabbed (even though screaming never seems to help the situation, at all) The best luck I’ve ever had solving this is duct taping them. Her on the mouth and him around both hands together. When they asked me how long they had to leave the tape on I smiled evilly and told them “As long as it takes to get off. I can put duct tape on you but it’s illegal for me to remove it because of the skin damage. Have a great afternoon!”

And it was!! I read a book and listened to them giggle as they helped each other. Helped! It worked out better than the “hugging shirt” but it wasn’t a long term fix. They learned the tricks for removing duct tape quickly. Really, it was a parenting win because I know they now have a chance of escaping if ever kidnapped. Deep down that was my plan all along ………we will go with that.

I try to head up potential issues before they become big issues. Soooooo when I heard disappointment that my son was in my blog I figured I should share something embarrassing and traumatic about her as well. Just to be a fair parent. I’d hate for her to feel left out. This next one is more embarrassing for her and traumatic for me. Hopefully, it does teach you to make sure young kids have good vocabulary.

When my sweet little blonde toddler wanted to go burn off some energy at the park I was more than obliging. Fresh air, sunshine, anonymity…. I could totally pretend that feisty 3 year old that is beating up grade schoolers didn’t belong to me. *sips drink and silently makes bets on how long before the poor boy cries* She ran off and did her thing, I sat with a book where I could keep an eye on her craziness. Towards the end of the afternoon I realized I hadn’t seen her in a little while. I wasn’t too panicked since I knew there was no way to successfully kidnap her. It took me maybe 30 seconds of looking to find her playing with a little boy under the slide. The very guilty looks I got from both on them stopped me in my tracks. I did the instinctive quick scan of the area. Blood? Nope. Bruises? None. Animal sacrifices? Nata. Fire? No. Ok, good. But why the faces……? I stayed pretty close to watch them. It only made me more suspicious since they would hide under the slide together, giggle, pop a head out to look at me, go back to giggling.

Yeaaaaaaah……. That’s about enough of that. Time to say good bye honey. (This is where I actually got lucky. She never threw fits leaving the park. She didn’t scream over not getting toys at the stores. Lesson here is don’t lie to your kids. It will totally be worth it. Trust me. ) We made our way to the car skipping and singing. I got her buckled in and didn’t even have time to come up with a plan of approach about the weirdness of the slide. (she’s weird all the time but this was suspicious weird AND involved a boy) because as I put the car in reverse she yells at me

“MOMMY! Look at my Hoo-Hoo!”

*choke on my gum*

“What? What did you just say?”

“My Hoo-Hoo! Look at it! That boy said it is pretty!”

*pretty sure I can see my pulse right now*

“Huney. I don’t think I’m understanding what you are saying. Why would that boy say it’s pretty?”

“Because I was letting him pet it”

“WHEN?!”

“When we were playing house under the slide. I was the mommy and he was the daddy and he was using both hands to pet my Hoo-Hoo”

*goes blind from the aneurism that just happened*

I pulled the car over because this conversation was no longer safe to have in the rearview mirror. I’m counting. I’m rubbing my thumbs on my ears. Anything to stay calm right now. I turn around in my seat to ask her my next question and I’m greeted with a huge smile and her holding her arms like she is holding a baby. She happily kicks her feet and says

“Look Mommy! I have a whole arm full of Hoo-Hoo’s!”

“Huney?”

“Yes, mommy”

“What is a Hoo-Hoo- to you?”

“You are so silly Mommy! You know what a Hoo-Hoo is!”

“I know I know what a Hoo-Hoo is Baby, but I want to know what a Hoo-Hoo is to you.“

“You know! Those fat little birds that go ‘Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!’ duh!”

*Oh thankyousweetbabyjesusf-ingChristonacracker!!!!!!*

“That’s exactly what I thought one was. But, so you know, the rest of the world calls them ‘Owls’ I don’t want people to think you aren’t smart”

“I’m very smart”

“Yes you are Baby”

Since then everyone has thought I love owls because I get so excited when I see them. I will just let people keep thinking that. I give all the presents to my baby girl that FRICKEN LOVES OWLS! It’s way easier to say “thanks” than explain to people why my eye twitches anytime I hear a slang term for vagina. Call it what it is!!! (unless your beautiful baby had explosive diarrhea and it has filled her girl parts, then you can call it a dirty snoochie. Your daughters vagina should never be thought of full of poo.) No cutesy names to get rid of embarrassment. Make that crap so awkward that it isn’t awkward anymore. It is for the best.

Now please take the time to make a list of the lessons you have learned today, and also write down how you can apply them to your life.

I have a prize for the person that gives me that best answer by next blog!!!

P.s. Haphephobic is freaking out about being touched. You’re welcome.

Before you judge me too terribly, know that my son demanded that I share this story. For real, I’m not claiming he did just to get out of the guilt. He really did come into my bedroom at 10:30 at night and insist my next blog be this story. And I suck (as you will soon see) and made the next one something else. So, here it is, the reason my son wears yoga pants! Or the reason he is afraid of the oven……

I didn’t realize until my son was almost 7 that he was afraid of the oven. I wasn’t even the person to pick up on the fear, it was my friend’s husband. We were at her house making cookies and all the kids (except 1) were up our butts in the kitchen, wanting – chocolate chips, cookie dough, to lick the spoon, to lick the bowl, to burn their hands, too drive us bat-shit crazy! I didn’t get warning anything was amiss. Suddenly there was this 6’7” dude in the doorway with a concerned expression blocking me in.

“Why is Dravin afraid of the oven?!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about….”

“Your son is scared shitless every time you cook. It took me a while to narrow it down to only when you use the oven. It’s been going on for years and I want to know why”

“You have lost your mind dude.”

“No, I haven’t. He stops whatever he is doing and watches you when you walk into the kitchen. If you preheat the oven he turns pale. Lastly, every single time you open the door he runs and hides. Go look for yourself! We have neighbor kids we have never even met before in the apartment begging for cookies and yours is in the back bedroom, hiding under the bed. What happened to make him scared shitless of ovens?!”

“Seriously, I have no idea……..”

Yes I do. I do know what happened. It was all my fault. If this was a hallmark movie right now would be when we have the weird chimes and a water color fade into the past. A few disclaimer for you to consider for this flashback; I was an artist. I was a single mom. I was in school and working. I had only been 17 for 1 week when my son was born. I had only been sober for 2 months when I got pregnant with him. I was raised by wolves. I had serious anger issues stemming for a horrible childhood. In short, I had to come up with crazy ways of solving problems so I wouldn’t be passing my issues onto my son. One of my many jokes was to laugh to myself and say “I understand why lions eat their young” when he would be grumpy or messy or cry for hours on end; pretty much any time I felt myself getting frustrated and angry. It usually worked. I would chuckle and put in The Lion King while I took care of whatever mess.

When he was 3 his Bio-dad came back into the picture. This wonderful event opened a can of sleep walking issues. During his sleepwalking he would pile up toys and pee on them. He would round up clothes and cut them apart. First with scissors, after I hid all of those it was knives from the kitchen, after that I bought a bunch of safety scissors so I could sleep a little more peacefully.

One afternoon he was being a normal 3 year old and refusing to pick up his room. (Who would ever expect that, crazy right?!) I was trying to study for finals and kept sending him back into his room to put his toys away. Every time I would send him back in he would throw more out of his toy box and yell “It wasn’t me! Confucius made the mess!” Whatever, I knew the 6 inch pet rat did not throw his toys. Maybe if it was hotdogs on the floor I would believe him, but not Spiderman action figures. He preferred Ironman anyways.

The last time I sent him back in he slammed his door shut and started screeching as loud as he could. I stormed down the hall like any normal mother would, reciting the usual lecture in my head “is that your inside voice? You need to have more respect. I hate cleaning too but we all have to do it” I was not prepared for what I saw when I opened the door. All the toys were in a smashed pile in the center of the room and little fluffs of cotton were floating through the air. The dirty little buttface had found a pair of real scissors. He dove from the top of his pile to the bed (still with scissors in his hands and what used to be his coat) and told me he was sleep walking.

I may have been born in the morning but it wasn’t that morning. His eyes were alert, not half asleep and closed over. He was breathing normal, maybe even growling, but not the deep snore like sound. He dove immediately from the carnage to his bed when he saw me, not dazed and unaware of his surroundings. And now he was laying there daring me to punish him for “sleepwalking” I was pissed!!!

I grabbed him by the arm and pulled the scissors away. First, the dangerous thing taken care of. I hope I get some points for that. I marched him down the hallway and stopped in the kitchen. He looked very confused until I slammed the oven door open. Then he looked startled. With all the righteous anger I had backing me I pointed in the oven, not unlike when a Salem girl would accuse a witch, and shouted

“THAT’S IT! GET IN THE OVEN!!!! THE LIONS HAD IT RIGHT, I’M EATING YOU AND I HATE RARE MEAT!!!!”

He looked between me and the oven a few times and then fell to the ground crying. He told me how much he loved me. He told me how sorry he was. He told me he would clean his room and never make it dirty again. He told me he would always use his pretty voice. He told me I could even have all of his Spiderman’s. Just please don’t cook him and eat him! My first though was to ask him if I could eat him raw, but these were real tears. Instead I gently closed the oven and sat on the floor. I scooped him into my lap and gave him kisses on his head and told him I wasn’t going to eat him……… this time. He did clean his room after that.

Fade back to present time (not 9 years ago even) My awesome son has mostly recovered. His room is still disgusting but he doesn’t yell or cut things. The pet rat is now a tarantula. His bio-dad is fairly consistent. His mom is still bat-shit crazy but in a fun way. He finally stopped having eye twitches every time someone read “Hansel and Gretel”. He loves cooking and even asks me to let him make cookies every now and then. He may have developed some unusual habits since this morning he stole my leprechaun yoga pants and wore them to school but I can live with that. (boys do weird things to impress girls and they did make his butt look good)

Apparently he is now terrified of the dishwasher though….

I was born the polar opposite of my mother but with all of her good looks and intelligence. My mother is pretty much in a constant state of looking at me sideways and shaking her head. At least she has finally given up on trying to talk me out of whatever crazy idea popped into my head. That must have been exhausting! My only worry is she will end up with nerve damage from the repetitive motion. Kind of like carpel tunnel for parents of weird children.…with more eye twitching ….

Back when she still tried arguing common sense back into me, we got into a pretty intense debate over collecting a beaver. We were coming up on Beaver Creek (I have a huge rant about poorly named creeks. I’ve never seen lightening at Lightening Creek, a horse at Dead Horse Creek, or even any woman at Crazy Woman Creek. We will go more in depth another time) and there was a beaver! I fricken love beavers!!!!!! I want a pet one almost as much as I want a pet fox! This one happened to be dead. But it was still normal sized, no bloating, and the blood was still red. Guess we are making a Sporran. (this is the little purse thing Scotsmen hang in front of their junk when they wear a kilt) I guessed wrong. This woman who claims to love me refused to pull over to get the beaver! And she calls herself my mother *slow head shake* This was the first perfect beaver I had ever seen and she was just driving on past like it didn’t exist, like I’m not sitting next to her begging, like we don’t have trash bags in the van to put it in, like all of her arguments are logical. Blah, blah “we don’t have a safe place to pull over…you’re pregnant and on bedrest…both your ankles are broken…we are staying out of town for 3 days and it will stink…it might have fleas…do you really want to give your baby the plague…” blah, blah, her needs. I was left with no other option than to plant my broken feet on the dash, cross my arms, and huff like a toddler.

Now my In-law’s were meant for me. They laugh and say “oookkaaay” whenever I get to sell a crazy idea to them. Who else gets lucky enough to have a mother–in-law that buys you a skeleton to feel better after your brother dies?! She knows me so well J And my father-in-law feeds my crazy. My husband is a great balance of the 2. He shakes his head as he is laughing while (sometimes) helping me.

The first time I asked him to pull over so I could tail a roadkill fox, he thought I was joking. HA! NOPE! Joke’s on him, now pull this pretty truck over so I can get that little fluff butt before someone else does. He did argue for a few seconds that no one else would want any piece of roadkill, fresh or not, but he slowed down anyways. Somehow he managed to pull off while staring at me the entire time. I would like to think he was overwhelmed by his all-encompassing love for me and couldn’t pull his eyes away. The reality is probably closer to the fact I was opening a pocket knife near his leather seats and can’t be trusted with sharp objects. As soon as the truck was in park I dove out humming the mission impossible theme. I slinked up to the Ginger Poof like a cartoon villain, flipped it over and GOD DAMMIT!!! The f-ing tail was already gone! I grumbled all the way back and huffed in the seat. My not sympathetic husband giggled (yes giggled) and asked

“Did you lose your nerve to cut it?”

“No, someone else already got it”

“Nooo, you’re kidding me!”

“I may be dramatic but I don’t lie. The darn tail is already gone, somebody beat us to it”

‘I never thought that would be an issue. Not ever.”

“Drive on, Sir”

When I called to rant to my father-in-law. He was far more sympathetic. He even offered to stop and get me every tail he came across on his way to work. Living in the country and leaving right before dawn would give him the advantage to beat the other thieves. It did make me feel better to have someone that understood; unlike my husband and my mother.

A few weeks later I had already forgotten the entire conversation. What fox tail? We were talking about a fox tail? Of course we were talking about a fox tail! Now we are talking about my super awesome surprise from Big Jim…. A BAG OF FOX TAILS!!! We are talking plural here, more than one. He meant it and has been saving every one he has come across since that phone call. I am full out giggling and high stepping and jumping and clapping and SQUEE-ing!!! He tells me to go look in the lunch box on his work truck. I bolted out the door like a kid after the ice cream truck shouting “Someone Loves Me!” The red lunch box was easy to find …but very…..warm. Odd. Oh well. I bring the whole box inside to look at my new trophies. Opening that lid in the house was the second mistake to be made. The first mistake was collecting fox tails in the middle of summer in Wyoming and putting them in a lunchbox that sits out in the sun all day…for 3 weeks. (Maybe we are up to 6 mistakes now, I’m not sure, I could be mistaken) The whole bag is moving on its own. It looks like the tails are crawling. That’s because the maggots that have hatched are a similar shade of red/brown and they are trying pretty dang hard to get out of that gallon Ziploc baggy. Slowly I look up.

“How long have these been outside?”

“I got the first one 2 days after we talked about it”

“Sooo…. these tails have been baking in the sun for a few weeks?”

“Well, yeah”

“You didn’t think to ice them?”

“Well, no. Why would I want those in my fridge?”

“Because there is muscle in the tail. So that means you left raw meat out in the sun”

“Well, that sucks”

*I vomit in my mouth a little bit*

He let out a hearty laugh. I let out an awkward-grossed-out-but-thanks-for-the-thoughtful-gift chuckle. Quickly, I took the writhing bag out to the deep freeze in the back shed. I spiked it in like it was a football in the end zone and slammed the lid shut. I will totally go back for them once I remember to bring a can of Raid, a gas masks, and some shoulder length gloves.

WHO DOESN’T KNOW TO REFRIDGERATE FOX TAILS???? REALLY?!

p.s. I really did love the gift. Thank you so very much!!

I think it’s been 2 years now. I should check if they are still there.

When Hollywood died suddenly in a car accident 4 years ago (today) our world was rocked. It was my first close experience with death at an age and compassion level of truly understanding mortality. Luckily, he made the planning process very easy. Somehow he knew all along that he was going to die young. His 30^th birthday was more like a funeral than a birthday because he expected it to be his last. He had everything already planned for us. He made a slide show of his favorite pictures, made a list of songs, told us where he wanted his ashes, he even wrote his own eulogy. We were spoiled!!! He had also said instead of weeping the day he died he wanted us to celebrate the day he was born each year after his death. Celebrate we did! I bought a blow up doll, dressed it in his clothes, made masks to put on it so his expression could change. We got him a cake and took him to the bar. He got to finish the night at his favorite strip club complete with tipping and lap dances. It is now a tradition.

My only brother died very similarly a few miles away 3 ½ years later. He was not nice enough to plan everything for us. He barely even talked about what he wanted (this might have contributed to his divorce, PFFT!! BOYS!!!) Our parents had a few wishes they wanted honored but neither of them were pushy or selfish so that left a lot up in the air. Somehow I managed to win the adulting draw and was put in charge (must be the fact I’m already screwed up so it wouldn’t cause more damage)

Joke is on them!!! I played in the ashes. What? It was my last chance to play with my brother, or so I thought…… hehehe…..Every pun you can imagine was thrown around. We went treasure hunting for the fun pieces. I found a staple! I played guess that body part. We put a heart in it and sang “I’ve got a jar of dirt” pirate style. My son pretended to be offended I could be so disrespectful but within a few minutes I heard him ask quietly, in a baby voice “can I have a little scoop-y too?” We voted to put his ashes in a Captain Morgan airplane shot bottle. Our dad called dibs on that little gem.

I’m deranged so it didn’t stop there. I made his box of ashes into a doll. After some hot glue, scissors, elastic, baby clothes and a bottle of wine; we had Mini Stan! I’m slowly drawing his tattoos on. I used the earrings he was wearing in the accident to pierce the mini ears, I’m sooo grateful he didn’t have his dick pierced. I like to wear him in a front baby carrier. Then he can see where we are going and give high fives. I still introduce him as “My Brother Stan” I then quickly cover the doll’s ears and whisper “sssshhhhhh, he died in September and we haven’t had the heart to tell him yet”.

He seems to get mixed reviews, but that isn’t very different from Pre-September Stan. We kind of enjoy the uncomfortable stares from prudish people that don’t understand the freedom of mental illness. Our mom gives us a sideways look and mumbles. His older daughter thinks it’s sweet that she can hang out with him still. They won a game at the skating rink together. Our dad loves it! He is planning on taking him to Canada on the next motorcycle trip. Do you think ashes need a passport?

The friends I’ve talked to want to set up play-dates. Everyone is ecstatic that he can keep on living a normal life that doesn’t involve work. And guess what?! He gets to go with me to the tax appointment! There are only 2 certainties in life and he isn’t going to skip out on that second one this year. I’m probably going to hell for that. Maybe after-death taxes is only purgatory level. It would be so great if it is.

We are pretty sure this is what he would’ve wanted (other than becoming a box of pencils) So far he hasn’t told us to stop. If you randomly hear national news of a freak accident involving a cremated voodoo doll you will know I finally took it a step too far.

Now use the magic little clicky buttons below to share this with all of your friends…..or with your boss if you need an excuse for a mental health day….do it now…..

There is was, standing in front of the class completely naked. We are not talking just in your underwear trying to hide the Carebears behind a text book; we are talking the full Monty. I’m frozen in place, terrified to move. A trail of sweat is rolling from both armpits all the way down my sides. I’m pretty sure a bead just dripped off my butt cheek. It could’ve been a draft, or a fly, or a shiver from the fact it’s totally freezing. Right then my high school art teacher decides to point at what I’m sure is my sweaty butt and comments “do you notice the curve here?” now everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE is staring at me. Just great. Naturally the next place my mind goes is to the cheese stick I ate 3 days ago, and the fact I shouldn’t have skipped the gym today (or for the last 5 years as well) Maybe if I had gone tanning my saddle bags would look more like slight hail damage instead of the craters on the moon. Do I still have the big divot in my left cheek from that allergy shot? I silently pray that the guy I’ve had a crush on since my sophomore year is more focused on his work than my imperfections. Because this had to be the night he decided to start attending. Maybe he finds butt sweat sexy. Maybe it adds an artistic sparkle. Maybe I’m going to keep this 15 year streak going and never have a chance with him. Probably that last one.

In case you are wondering, no this isn’t a dream. I volunteered for this. I’m here by choice. I even signed a contract saying the next 2 hours belong to this flock of hippies. It’s a damn good thing I’m a recovering nudist or this would be EXTREMELY awkward! Instead it gets to be only really awkward. Once again I feel totally exposed as the exact same teacher is interrupting my daydreaming about the exact same guy that has aged, oh so nicely. Time to change positions. Thank Fricking God! My foot went to sleep hours ago (or 2 minutes, either is possible)

Shit. Now I’m on the spot again. The reason I keep getting called back is this right here; I have to pose myself. This is sooo much harder than you might think. It has to be interesting, but not impossible to hold still for 5-30 minutes. It has to be totally different, but flow from the last pose. It has to be tasteful, and NOT porn star. You would not believe how many hours I have spent thinking “I hope I’m not aiming my vagina at someone”

And I loved it!!! I loved being an adult model for life drawing! I’m very socially awkward and being the center of attention makes me blush from head to toe. But artists can put the best twist on any negative situation. They see beauty in flaws. They tell me my man shoulders give “nice lines” that the pouch left over from the babies gives “a soft feminine feel” and when they are feeling generous they shave 10 pounds off and put my butt back where is was 16 years ago. Artist are so sweet.

They also have wonderful tastes in music. These are my people! The choices are very eclectic. One night is Weezer and 90’s rock, another is Manu Chao, a folk singer from India, Beatles, and every other crazy thing that most normal people have never heard of. They introduced me to Jalan Crossland. Naturally I would be standing on a table, naked, in a crowded room, in Wyoming, when I first heard “Chicken Trucker”. The hardest part of this job is not singing along to “Bighorn Mountain Blues”

And the conversations! Every night I would leave feeling like a new person. there was no wishing I was a fly on the wall, I was the dragonfly swimming in the Merlot. The conversations would morph through every subject imaginable. Every answer had real thought behind it, not regurgitation of the text they saw on Facebook earlier. Responses were taken as opinions, not as criticism. You ended the night feeling empowered and enlightened, not judged.

As I would wander around the room at the end of the night loosely draped in a sheet (it makes things weird when you accidentally dip your nipple in someones paint, not that I would know from experience…..moving on) I felt like I was floating. It was like I was watching the world from a hundred views. All the artist would lay out their work to compare and not a single 2 looked alike. Each had it’s own unique style. Each was a reflection of the artist placed onto me. Each one was how I was seen through their eyes. And each one made me feel like I had given something back to the world. I had stood on that table with sweat dripping off my bum and had no idea anything this beautiful was being created. Even though my back hurt, my legs were full of pins and needles, sweat had dripped off my forehead (as well) and my limbs were shaking; they had done the hard work. They had made something tangible that could bring feeling out of others. And I had helped.

I recommend every person go model for an art class. I would say 3 times or more, but at least once. It is an eye opening experience that will definitely change a person for the better. At the very least you are doing something to help the arts in your community. You could just volunteer to clean sinks in the mud room but i can promise out won’t have the same enlighting effect. I hope every person can someday understand the warm feeling that has me hooked.

P.s. support local artists!