Who's the Crazy One?

I decided to go for a coffee run. I was tired of taping my eyelids open and yawning every few seconds. Normally, I would bring co-workers along because the area was a little sketchy, but everyone was busy. So, I put on my big girl panties and exited the building. I immediately began speed walking.

I’m one of those extremely paranoid people that look for escape routes everywhere I go, so I was very aware of my surroundings. I passed a busy seafood shack and considered stopping there for a sweet tea instead, but I knew at this point, I really needed some coffee.

Of course, I kept looking behind me to make sure I wasn’t being followed. That’s when I saw him. A scruffy, dirty man with a large backpack about twenty yards from me. Although I was already speed walking, I quickened the pace until the arches of my feet started to burn. I looked over my shoulder thinking I had put enough distance between us, but the man was even closer.

            “Sh…do…you…know?” he yelled at me.

            He was too far away. I couldn’t make out the words, but I was sure he was speaking alien or zombie. I suddenly started thinking about the man who took bath salts and then ate someone’s face. Was this man asking me if he could eat my face? I started running.

            I peered over my shoulder and saw that the man was running too. He was chasing after me and yelling. “Sh…de…no…to…at!”

            What was he saying? I’m not Catholic, but I began saying Hail Marys just to be safe. I was sure I was going to die, which made me instantly think of my two sweet boys who would be motherless all because their mother had to have a coffee.

            The man caught up to me. His steel blue eyes bore into my brown ones. I threw my hands up in the air and backed up. “I don’t have any cash on me!” I yelled.

            His eyebrows arched a bit in confusion. He turned his head from side to side like a dog hearing his name. My heart stopped in my chest, and I was sure the sky was growing darker by the second. The ground was a carousel, spinning.

            “I just want directions to Hardees,” he said.

            “Oh, I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.” I smiled warmly at him, wanting to redeem my haughty self, but felt foolish. I’m an awful person, I thought. I'm a judgmental, scared, and paranoid little girl trapped in a woman's body. 

“It’s okay,” he said.

“Hardees is just up ahead,” I said. “Once the road ends, cross the street, and it will be on your left.”

            He thanked me before darting off. He seemed to want to get enough distance away from me as possible.

            Just like that, he was gone.

            And I was an idiot.

But I was alive and grateful. And coffee, never tasted sweeter.

Moral MOMent: You really can't judge people by the way they look.

Toilet Bowl Tooth Brush

I have flashbacks of a memory that still makes me laugh. It usually hits me suddenly (POW! WHAM! BAM!) when I'm cleaning the toilet. 

Everson and I were living with my parents at the time. The house was silent. You know that hush, pin-drop, quiet as a mouse, all-cliches-used-at-once, quiet. Definitely too peaceful for my 2-year-old boy and my 9-year-old niece who were always fighting.

I found them in the bathroom. What I saw made my heart drop to my belly, made my eyes burn, made my nostrils swell, made my reflux bubble up, until I was gagging. 

Green. I was green. I was an unflattering shade of 80's chartreuse. 

I screamed. I screamed until every bit of oxygen was extinguished, and I was left lightheaded. I eventually caught my breath and screamed again. I JUST COULDN'T STOP SCREAMING! 

My beautiful niece who had been brushing her teeth and primping in the mirror looked bewildered. Startled. Shook to the core. Her doe-like, soulful, honey brown eyes of hers succumbing to the terror in my voice. I could see the tears forming, gleaming, glistening in her eyes in the glare of the 70 watt bathroom light bulb. 

She looked and saw what I saw. The tears were now falling apologetically. She understood my horror. 

I stopped screaming and composed myself. My 2 year-old dropped the toilet brush he tried to cram in his small mouth. He looked equally as terrified. "What mommy? I brush my teeth too," he said proudly. 

I turned to my niece. I was shaking like a leaf. "Weren't you watching him?" 

Her gaze darted to her feet. She was shuffling nervously. "I didn't know," she whispered, her voice cracking, crumbling away in the air. A fresh batch of tears came. 

"It's okay," I said. "I'm sorry I yelled. He will be fine."  I think.

I know. 

She was probably thinking the same thing I was, "What possessed him to use a toilet bowl brush?" 

I scrubbed his mouth the best I could with toothpaste and mouthwash. I considered using a blow torch. Maybe bleach. By now, I was in tears. I called poison control. Despite the urgency and desperation in my voice, the operator laughed. She tried very hard to be professional, courteous, considerate, but every other word came out as laughter.

"He is ...ha ha...fine...if you are... ha ha concerned ...hhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa...take him to the ER. He may get sick but .....oh....hahaha.....he should be fine." 

I hung up, I was so mad. Obviously, she didn't know what a toilet bowl brush was used for. 

But then, strangely enough, two days laughter I popped up in bed laughing. Suddenly, the hilarity of how it all must of sounded hit me. I couldn't stop laughing. 

It's amazing how things we witness in life mean something different one day to the next. Our perceptions are always changing. Life seems difficult when we are in the moment, going through the motions, SURVIVING, but when it's over, we handled it. 

Moral MOMent: You can't scrub your mouth with a dirty brush and expect to have a clean mouth.

Who am I really?

I’m a teacher. It wasn’t my first choice of professions. I wanted to be an artist, or an actress. I didn’t even originally go to school for teaching. My first choice was law. (I did poorly in those classes.) My second was social work. (Omigosh, no.) I then went to school for English (I was going to be a famous author.)They said most college students change their major five times, and I did!

I had ridiculous ideals back then. The world was my oyster, and I was the the pearl. I thought I was special and important. Maybe even smarter and prettier than others.

I scoff at this now.

For years, I sent out manuscripts, tried out at casting calls, and did some very minor acting and modeling. I remember sewing my own dress for the Oscars. It was sequin, and I sewed it by hand.

I laugh at this too.

Eventually, I set out to get a masters degree in Psychology. Mission accomplished. I never got my license, so I can’t actually practice in this field. 

Yes, more laughter.

So I settled into teaching. I really do enjoy it. There are so many moments that make me smile. Like the time one of my students brought her family’s entire roast to school and proceeded to eat like it was normal to eat an entire roast by yourself in one sitting. Or the time another student called me a “teacher princess”. That is my favorite title so far.

My students make me laugh. They think really random things. Like Christmas is Santa’s birthday. Like bacon doesn’t come from pigs, it comes from a grocery store. That sea dragons are not real, but the Easter Bunny is. That I look like I’m on my deathbed without makeup, but I’m pretty with it.

I have considered wearing my Oscar dress to school along with a tiara and taking my rightful place as a teacher princess.

Moral MOMent: We can make a million plans, but more often than not, our calling finds us.

What is your special title? What were you called to do?

So Santa's Birthday is coming up! Hahahaha

Motherhood is not having your cake and eating it too!

There are many days I struggle with the idea of being a mom. Maybe because I didn't push my kids out of my V like a torpedo flying through the cosmos. They left scars. I show my littlest one my scar and tell him, I made you, you exited here like a little performer - all bursts of energy, sunshine, and rainbows. He smiles at this.

He's also the same kid that when he's in the stall, and I'm peeing, tries to find the source of my stream. He will say, "Uh-oh, yours is gone. Who took it?"

Good question kid. I have always felt I was punished for being a woman. If my period wasn't enough to convince me, society cramps that require ridiculous amounts of ibuprofen do the trick. First cramp, I make less than my male counterparts (even though I have more education). This phenomenon has occurred in about 90% of the jobs I've held.

Another cramp, there are so many expectations placed on women. We do a lot. We do a lot everyday and no one seems to notice. Is it because everything we do is behind the scenes? We are natural born multi-taskers. Does this make it fair?

Have you ever noticed the way women can laugh and cry at the same time? Crazy, right? Multi-taskers.

So many times as women, we put our needs on the bottom of the to-do list. We don't take care of ourselves. We forget to love ourselves. We compare each other. We make whole Venn Diagrams about how we are similar and different to other moms and then we rank ourselves on this scale that doesn't even exist. 

We should just stop comparing. Stop judging others. Stop judging ourselves.


My eldest son once stole a classmate's birthday cake. It was one of those individual birthday cakes for the birthday girl. I told him, "Go wait in line for a piece of cake."

Only, he didn't want to wait. He grabbed her little, personalized, beautiful cake and started walking to his seat with it. Of course her mom saw, quickly grabbed the cake in true ninja-mom style, and offered him a piece. There was an eruption of laughter.

My son was unfazed. He wanted to have cake and eat it too, even if it wasn't "his" cake. 

So many times in life, we make the cake, but we don't get to eat it, i.e. diet, expectations, putting others first.

Moral MOMent: We should reward our own hard work. No one hands out awards for being decent parents, but they should. Hey, at least a participation ribbon for just showing up. 😆

     

Adventures in Windbreaking

Everyday, I think to myself "MY POOR KIDS HAVE ME FOR A MOM!" I'm a good mom, but . . .

I'm always the goofy one, the clumsy one, the forgetful one, the late one, and the stained one.

For instance, today I had to have a Colonoscopy. It's cool but . . .  I forgot to take off my bra when I got into my gown, and I was too embarrassed to say anything.

So here I'm trying to remove my bra, so I can throw it into the trash. Dispose of the evidence. No one would know. Right?

I got it unsnapped and remove it from one arm, but then I realized I couldn't get it off because my IV was in the way. So then I tried to tear the strap with my free hand, with my teeth, with my mind. Nothing worked, meanwhile this man is watching me. I frantically turn my attention to the IV, could I disconnect it myself? I've seen episodes of Grey's Anatomy. How hard can it be?

Too hard. Something beeps. Was it my machine or his?

I give up and put the bra back on. I fasten it, but it's all twisted. At this point, I don't care. I don't EVEN care that my bra is not on right and is riding up past my breasts, and I'm about to use it as a chin guard.

I later find out that leaving your bra on is no BIG deal. Seriously?

Legit, if that wasn't embarrassing enough, the first thing they ask me when I wake from anesthesia is "Did you fart yet?"

Listen lady, I'm trying to figure out where I am, what happened, and if I'm alive or in heaven. 

So the minute she leaves, I let it rip. I used my bottom as a machine gun.  Brrrrratatatatata ratatata. She quickly comes back. "It's okay. You can stop now! I heard you fart."

And then I giggle, what adult uses the word FART anymore? I can't even say it out loud without laughing. I'm like a freaking 3 year-old boy. "Haha . . . she said FART."

I would think the medical terminology would be to "pass gas".

However, I asked Siri and its actually flatulence.

Did you know the average person toots 14 times a day?

I surpassed that!

It felt good that for one day out of the year, I was no longer considered average. All toots considered, I was extraordinary. Or maybe, I was just "extra".

Moral MOMent: We are far from perfect humans. Sometimes, we are the sum of our farts, uh, I mean parts.