I Pooped on You The Day You Were Born.

The Weez is “so not tired, Mom” and quickly whisks a book off my bedside table to read since she has no other modes of entertainment at this late hour. She takes I Just Want to Pee Alone which is a collection of stories from other AWESOME mommy bloggers. She decides to read a story from The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva which is towards the end of the book and one I have yet to read.

Several moments pass. I continue to work on other things. Dogs amble throughout the room and finally settle down. My wine slowly dwindles in its glass. The house is quieting down. Finally.

From a distance I hear, “Mom!” Of course I ignore. That’s what you do when children yell for you. They’re younger and should get their lazy a@@es up and respectfully request your attention, not demand it.

The Weez has learned this rule and does not yell for me again. No, instead, she barges into my room and scares the BEE-GEEBUS out of me. “What’s an a-piss-a-tom-a-tee?” Oh, Lord. She means episiotomy. What is this story about, I think. You’ll have to buy the book if you wish to know. I assure you, it’s well worth it. You can buy the book on Amazon.

Now I have a choice: a) snatch (no pun intended) the book from her and fuss for her to go to bed, b) lovingly coax her to read her bible, or 3) take this moment to scare the sh*t out of her. Yes, #3 is naturally my choice.

Despite it being 11:30pm, I describe the HORRORS of childbirth. Listen up Weezy, guess what else happens?! You take a poo when you push the baby out. And yes, I pooped on you the very day you were born. Nighty-night. Sweet dreams. I love you. Yes, I do. Just to prove it, I will refrain from showing you pictures of an apissatomatee.

The Weez.

Weddings are a B*tch!

The Boy, my first born, my sweet angel, my turkey face. Yes, that was one of his nicknames too. Don’t ask me why. I have no clue; although as I type this, I remember when was barely 2 months old, he’d make the funniest poopy face. Yeah, no, still have no idea why I called him turkey face.

poopy.face

The Boy has been on my mind a lot lately. He’s about to turn 22. I haven’t seen him in just over 3 years (in person). He was stationed in South Korea, met a gal and married her, and is now in Japan serving in the Air Force [sniff, sniff]. I’ve been reminiscing over photos and memories which led me to remember one of my most enlightening parenting moments and one of my most embarrassing parenting moments. Gratefully, the latter event did not happen in my presence.

Bless his heart; he was my learning-curve child. The first time I truly realized how much my actions affected him was when he was barely 3 years old. It’s an honest statement to say I’m an aggressive driver. Back then, I was really aggressive and might still be. I’d weave in-and-out of traffic, all the while calling the other drivers “Idiot!” On this particular day, I remember that Radiohead’s “Creep” was playing and remember the exact stretch of highway on which I was driving. I can’t recall what caused me to swerve, but I did. I love Radiohead so I must have been too wrapped up in the song to realize that I did not yell out my typical rant. Turns out I didn’t have to. The Boy handled it just fine. My precious 3 year old baby boy yelled at the top of his lungs, “I  D  I  O  T!!”  Oh my goodness, what have I done?!?

Fast forward a year and a half.

The Boy was spending the night with my sister, Mogie. The Boy affectionately calls her Gigi, but that’s an entirely different post to come later. Gigi and her boyfriend (now husband) told me to be sure to pack clothes for him to attend one of their friend’s wedding. Seemed reasonable to me. It never occurred to me that The Boy had never attended a wedding before and it might be a little boring for him. Poor thing, for he was ill-prepared.

As my sister reports, The Boy was very fidgety. The wedding had yet to begin and he was over-the-top-insane-from-boredom. Gigi was constantly correcting him to “sit still” and “be a good boy. We’ll get ice cream later”. Finally, out of frustration, The Boy belted (not whispered, stated quietly, or said), “WEDDINGS ARE A BITCH!” The entire church turns to stare at them. I don’t remember the details my sister shared after this point. Frankly, it was hard to hear her over my hysterical laughing. I do know that The Boy behaved through the remainder of the wedding.

The Boy, my boy. Another Christmas and birthday without him. I’ll just sit, in the dark, sipping on a glass of wine, with tissue in hand. [Cue Harry Chapin].

The Boy.

The Boy and his mom.