The tale of the first child 

I’ll never let my kids sleep with me, I said. Co-sleeping is for carnies. Kids need to know their place. I have standards. Children of mine will never own me, I said loudly, fist triumphantly held high above my youthful and childless body and spirit. 
And then I had two boys and I became a hypocrite to the fullest extent and we all laughed and laughed at the notion that we have the ability to put common sense over matters of the heart when it comes to our children. 

I may talk more about the dramatics and antics of his brother but this child, my first one, is the first and last thing I’ll ever love in this very special way. He is my sweetheart, my love, my sunshine, the one who turned my heart from black to less blackish. 


He’s everything I never deserved and everything I never knew I wanted in life. It’s odd to tell the world you have a three year old as a best friend, but he’s all mine, and he’s the best I could ever dream of. 

He loves naps and cookies and fuzzy pajamas, men who drive big trucks and big women who scoop ice cream. He laughs loudly and he kisses wet and he looks me in the eye when he’s serious and sorry or sad or excited. He hates showers and deadlines and pants and being told what to do. He’s the very, very best of me and he’s everything I will never be. 
I’d spend a million more days never getting sleep to be close enough to be able to touch within an arms reach, and to hear him breathe (loudly, very loudly like his father) for the rest of my life. 

But really, this picture is proof  why I never sleep. And you know what? I’ll sleep when I’m dead,because from where I lay, sleepless nights are ok by me.

Overweight, aggressive and dangerous child for sale.

**for anyone very upset by this post, please stop it. This is called satire and I don’t read the hate mail**
Sully wakes up every single day shouting to alert me that he is awake, he wants out of his baby cage, and he’s somehow already bullshit about God knows what.  The child is seriously my worst nightmare.

Today, I brought him into bed to “cuddle”, which only meant I wanted to go back to sleep.  Since he was apparently well rested, he thought he’d punish me by 1. biting me in the back when I was pillow deep, to remind me of his existence, which actually only reminded me to google a local and sketchy dentist willing to remove the teeth of a toddler.  then 2. last minute, I saw him grasp the iPad with both of his fat hands, swing it over his head and then before I could move, he smashed my head with it.  He almost learned his first lesson in flying.

There is something so wrong with this child.

I had no energy to try today to run him like a puppy and so while I did my best to ignore and avoid him, he chased me around shouting, “Mommmmmmmmy, I seeeeeeeee you.” It’s like he just wants to put me on notice and truthfully, this child is fucking terrifying.  Do you know what it’s like to be chased by a smaller, angrier, seemingly drunk version of yourself who appears only to be motivated by destruction and inflicting pain on the innocent?  Anyone know what it’s like to be terrorized in your own home by someone you shot out of your own vagina, knowing he’s a legit schizophrenic, unmedicated at that?

That and I legit think he’s attempting to double up on meals to gain strength to defeat me, all the while playing me with his fake attempts at loving me with his aggressive hugs and dangerous kisses that at any point could turn terribly wrong and result in a full set of teeth marks on my face.

I told him no today because he was trying to eat a handful of dirty cherry pits and when he wouldn’t listen, I reduced myself to shouting and at first he looked shocked.  Then he pretended to be insulted and hurt.  And then when I picked him up to apologize, he pulled back and slapped me and then laughed, took a second look at my horror, wasted no time in his levels of deceit and smiled, looking me straight in the eye and then swiftly bound off my lap to saddle up on the dog shouting YEEEEHAW.  He’s fucking lucky that dog didn’t bite him out of spite.  I wanted to bite him.

Yesterday, this child took off his diaper three times out of aggression, tossed it on the floor and then stuck his penis in a strainer.  No fucking idea where he got the idea that sexually assaulting kitchenware was a thing in this house but there are plenty of people who will later in life back him and claim I am somehow to blame for all of this.

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I can’t pay someone enough to come get this child and do something with him.  Cage him, run him, I really don’t fucking care.  He’s probably the inspiration for that movie The Good Son, which I barely remember but I feel like there was one child who went all sorts of wrong and killed his family and this is that child.

So I have a child for sale and I’m willing to barter for low grade booze.  I’m not even going to shoot for top shelf because some days he drives me to want to swallow a gallon of grain alcohol to forget that I did this to myself.

In related news, I’m considering a hysterectomy to ensure this shit doesn’t happen again.  Anyone know of a good doctor?  If not, I’m just going to swallow bleach and hope my insides die and then start MMA training in the event he figures out how to spar and comes after me.

Motherhood is rewarding, I was told.

 

Spring is here, and so let the life changes begin!

Few things to be clear about on my self declared, Welcome To Spring Weekend.

First and foremost, the profile picture you see on FB currently or here, it’s me, for better or worse.  I’m just lucky enough to have besties who know where to buy me my perfect shirt.

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The mouth that spews my truth and mine alone, it’s me, and I make no apologies.

My choices, are my very own.

My actions, are mine and I stand behind every one.

My family, as dysfunctional, and perfect, and seriously questionable as humans, they are mine, and I would always defend them until the end.

My beliefs, also mine and not to be questioned.

And this picture, my perspective.

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I am, like it or not, choosing to live my life in an authentic way that does not allow for others to dictate my path, to apologize for me, or to redirect my efforts, my energy, my ambition, or the things I love.

I have lived a life full of happiness, extreme pain, some wisdom and many failures, and I love and live every single moment of my life with not.one.single.regret.

I will NEVER live a life I feel like I have to answer for. For me, for people who have met me, there are two things: You don’t prefer me (or hate, I get it) or you love me. There is very little grey in the world of Heather. And that, that is something I am not only ok with, I am beyond proud of.

I don’t like mediocrity, and I only strive to be memorable in life. Nothing much more, nothing much less.

Along the way, my parents taught me two things I will never forget, two things instilled in me, one lesson from each.

My mother always told me this: Big things come in small packages, Heather. You might be small, but you are nothing less than the rest and you have big things inside you that sometimes others can’t see.

And my father always said, a bit more aggressively, If you do not think the world of yourself, the best things you can be, the highest opinion of who you are, you cannot expect someone else to think that of you. Do not be ashamed of thinking highly of yourself. If you do not think the highest of yourself, you can never, ever expect any person, any boss, any man, any friend, to think that of you.

And those are the two things that I remember, three decades later, when I need to center myself and remember where I came from, what I believe in, and where I am going next.

Changes in life, redirection, etc, should always be looked upon positively.  And when you find a need to be recentered, just look to those who loved you most back when–especially those who loved you when you looked like a carnie, but with no traveling circus family to be had.  🙂

Why speaking to spouses should be optional…

I’m beginning to understand what it’s  like to live with someone who has dementia, at least in the early stages.  I assume it’s similar to having to say the same thing to the same person 900 times in a manner that sounds entirely new to them because they’ve never heard what you said the first time you said it.

Except I don’t live with a person with dementia.  I live with someone who literally stares at me when I talk and hears absolutely fucking nothing.  Lots of head nodding and nothing registering.  My father used to say, the lights are on but nobody’s home.  Yes, just like that.

Otherwise, no one in this house would have been confused or surprised when I came home with silver hair the other day.

Hours away at the salon, I return home, triumphant and pumped about my new hair. I swing open the door and expect some kid of, ooh, isn’t that different and sexy, look from the Mr. Instead, he looks at me and then starts to say, “Ooooh, Soy, look at Mommy’s haa…..”

And then he just stops.  And then he looks at me and then his face twists up into that pained look of confusion that doesn’t even come close to being discreet.

“Is that blonde?  That’s not blonde.  What color is that?  Is that…” I had no idea I had a third person in this house who would need a color wheel tutorial in the near future.

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“Silver?” I interrupted.  “Yes, it’s silver.  I had her do silver.”  And then I smiled because I was quite proud of myself.  He just stared at me and the confused look didn’t change and also the things that kept coming out of his mouth didn’t change.

“Did you mean to do that?”  Seriously no fucking idea why those words were just falling out of his mouth.

“No, I fell into a bucket of silver. Yes, of course I meant to do that. What do you mean, did I mean to?” This is why I think speaking to your spouse does not have to be mandatory.

“Well, I just don’t know why.”

“WHY WHAT?” I knew he meant why in the world would you do that but I thought I’d give him a few last options to save himself.

“You don’t think it’s edgy?” He kept staring.

“Fun?” Blank stare.

“Sexy?” So much staring, probably very little brain waves.

“This is why your opinion does not matter when I go to the salon.”  I walked away so that I could go take 213 selfies to post 1 good one on FB.

Later in the car, on the way to the playground—

“You really don’t like it?” I tried again, admiring my hair in the mirror.

“You don’t think dying your hair grey makes you look old?”  Apparently someone hasn’t been paying attention to fucking Pinterest.

I didn’t answer and just stared out the window, wondering if there was a charm school in this world that would have him.

 

 

The 1940s in Germany: Minor political issues

So I’m at Ritter Sport Cafe on Sunday, enjoying the best Sunday brunch I’ve had in awhile.  Seriously, before I get to the actual story, I have to stress that they make THE most amazing french toast, maybe top three in the world, including in France, which I don’t think actually even sells french toast.  I will tell you that what else they have is the second best hot chocolate in the world, second only to the Godiva hot chocolate in Salzburg, which I think is actually just melted chocolate in a cup.

Sorry, the food was really that distracting.  Moving on.

In case you’re not aware, they also have a massive chocolate shop, which wasn’t open the day I went to brunch, and a museum, which details the different chocolate and wrappers and marketing they’ve had over the years, starting in the 1930s until present day.

Let’s take a look at some of the decades to see how the chocolate has changed.

 

 

Then we get a bit of vintage, the farther back we go.

 

And then the first wall, which has the very start of the chocolate factory on display.

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Well that’s odd.  One wall doesn’t look like the others.  I wonder why the ’40s is so empty.

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Nothing more that the Germans love than to refuse to say words to address an old fashioned 1940s closing.  There must be a story here somewhere.   Ah, yes!  Found it!

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And there it is.  Those pesky political reasons, always shutting down chocolate factories.

Seriously, POLITICAL REASONS?

Germans.

The Art of Outdoor Potty Training

Sawyer announced that he had to pee four times while we were out in the city today. Three of the times, we were in stores close enough to places I knew had public restrooms that were clean enough to use with a toddler, ones within 30 seconds of wherever we were standing, because our response time is limited and only gauged by the level of urgency he chooses to awkwardly display on his face.

The last time, though, we weren’t near any restaurants. We were in the middle of a grassy park near the duck pond, and there was no way I was going to be able to run with him to the nearest brewery in time.  Look at how lovely today’s setting was.

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Now that you know where we were, I’d like to unveil today’s lesson in responsible parenting.

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The entire time I snapped away, the Mr. hissed, “STOP TAKING PICTURES OF HIM”, but not because he knew I ws going to post them all over the internet and doesn’t think it’s appropriate to put bare assed photos of our children out for public consumption.  He carried on with, “You are going to give him stage fright.”

First of all, no child of mine is even capable of stage fright under any circumstance.  Second, I witnessed that child poke our Frenchie, Bull, in the eye with his anteater penis the other day and laugh and laugh, slapping his knee and then doing what I’m assuming is the toddler attempt at that weird helicopter penis thing I’ve seen his father do more times than I’d like to discuss.

There is no way in hell I’m taking the blame if that child can’t piss on a tree in public.

 

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The Mr’s store fails of late

I ask the Mr. to go to the store tonight after work for baby wipes and “whatever you want to make for dinner.” Comes back 30 minutes later (store is 1 min drive away) with enough ingredients to make an army mushroom stroganoff (unsure when we swapped meat for mushrooms but I digress since I don’t cook), two bottles of wine, including one red bottle that I’ve never asked for in my life and I feel like WHY DON’T YOU KNOW ME, maltauschen for the kids, ice cream bars for him, and another carton of milk to add to the two in the fridge.
Not a fucking baby wipe to be found.
“Where are the wipes?,” I asked, knowing full well where those fucking wipes are. They’re sitting on the German shelf, waiting to be sold to me when I get in the car and go get them.

“DAMMNIT! Ugh. I was there and I just didn’t know what to get and I wandered in circles and I forgot what I was doing and I didn’t know what I wanted and then I just bought one of everything and came home.”

One of everything I learned tonight translates into lots of nonsensical things (leeks, mushrooms, ice cream bars) on the counter, and more than lots of questions in my head about how one lives 4 decades and can’t go to the store and back and get the one thing needed to wipe the asses of children who have been shitting like Great Danes lately.

This is two days after a similarly interesting exchange occurred Wednesday morning that went something like,
“Do you know where THE deodorant is?” THE stems from a fundamental issue we have at home that we apparently prefer the same melon scented deodorant which shouldn’t reduce us to sharing but I don’t want to discuss that right now.
“I know there’s one in my purse. Why?” (there is also one upstairs next to the tooth brushes and one in the bin holding new toiletries for when we run out)
“Oh, good, because I didn’t know where it was and I’m on day three without wearing any.” Note to self, if purse deodorant is used, it shall go directly in the trash. I stare blankly and then give dead eyes because I just don’t know where to start.  I decide with something rational.
“Huh. There are two stores within 1 minute of either of our offices on base that sell brand new deodorants that you could try purchasing, like a grown adult, probably before day three, though.” I hope this doesn’t become as big of an issue as brushing teeth is for my three year old. Oddly similar, though.
“I see you’re back to being an asshole today.”
Super.

The day Joe saved me 

The Senate had two types of elevators back in the day–staff, and Senator. We never went in theirs and they always popped up in ours. I’d like to think most encounters in the public elevators were pleasant, but I know better. 

Before I get to the time I shared an elevator with Obama, there was the time I was sent to deliver a note to the Senate floor. Like Game of Thrones, you never broke the wax seal of death, aka, the licked envelope of my boss, and so off I went, eager to pass off this note to the slaves on the floor so I could go back to answering the calls of insane yet colorful people like Prior, calling to complain about the red dress my boss was wearing on a Friday.  Honest to God, it was a thing. 

It was a nice day, I remember because I wore no coat as I took off to the Capitol. It was nice and I hadn’t tried to kill anyone that day, all indications of a successful week. 

The elevator opened on the bottom floor as planned and I lit up with the hope it’d take me to the desired floor w no family tour interruption. I was poised, ready, and anxious to get back.
The elevator door heavily slid open on the Senate floor, and before I could step outside, flashes of bulbs flashed and flashed and flashed and the amount of blinking I did was uncalled for but called for and I wanted to just hit close and go back down until a firm and guiding hand grabbed mine, pulled me out and whispered, “Hey kid, they’re out for me, not you. C’mon.” Bogart type shit.

I stopped blinking, looked up, and found my face in the attention of Joe Lieberman.  He winked, pulled me out, and tossed me along to the floor, gave me a quick wave, and off he went. He had nice hair. White hair, but nice, and a smile to match. 

I dropped the note on the Senate floor, ran outside to the driver pickup spot, lit a cigarette and told the drivers the story. I was ignited by meeting JL, and they laughed, knowing all too well the stories of leadership, and before I could realize what happened, Joe came out again, slipped into his car and went to leave. 

I went to toss my cigarette quickly, so he didn’t see me smoking, but heard his joyful bellow,

“You again?,” he smiled. “Better get back before they find you.”

And with that, he pulled away. 

Kennedy was more insulting, Obama so much more fun. Guess we’ll have to do this in batches. 

A true American hero–Martin Luther King, Jr.

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“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands in times of challenge and controversy.” —MLK Jr.
 
There are leaders. Quiet warriors, driven to protect, to serve, to fight for the underdogs, to exemplify all that is red, and white and blue. Educated, inspirational, hard working, determined, selfless, empathic, and kind. Kindness, maybe fundamental kindness, is the unsung characteristic of a true leader.
 
In a day where we are faced with our own leaders filled with hate, destruction, corruption, contempt, lies and laziness, it is today, this weekend, that is important to recognize those who have led, who have actually struggled, who looked fear in the eye and stared back unwilling to let hate win and conquer a people who have the potential to be so good, to be so brave, to trail blaze the living fuck out of the wrong this world is filled with today.
 
Remember this month, as we face a true mockery of American leadership, undeserving leadership, lacking qualifications, morals and the ability to unite our country that has not been as divided as it is at this very moment in a very, very long time.  Remember, there are leaders who have faced imprisonment, defamation and ultimately, death–all in the name of fighting for what is right in this world, for patriotism.
 
These men, Martin Luther King Jr., our most recent President, and many, many others, they carried on with a quiet selflessness and courage that I hope my children will always remember, embody and continue in their own lives. These are the men that I want my boys to know rose up and faced challenges head on, united people, lit sparks of hope that could not be put out, and asked for nothing in return, not fame, not fortune, and certainly not thanks. These are who I want my boys to know.
 
We are better than what we are about to witness take over this month. We are better than hate, and venom, and the incitement of fear and the bullying. We are Americans, we have risen from the ashes of those seeking to destroy us, and we will do it again. It is sad that this moment in time is unique in that the destruction comes from within our borders, in our own House, from people we hoped we could trust.
 
The circumstances, we cannot change those. But the future, we can, and we will, and we will all be better people for it.
 
The spark that MLK Jr ignited in 1963 with I Have a Dream, burns on. It’s up to us to ensure it lights new flames filled with optimism and hope, and that it never, ever goes out.
 
You were one of a kind, MLK, and you will be remembered forever.

Happy 2017!! Advice, goals and encouragement

Every New Year, I say I’m going to stop saying swear words and drink more water. Fucking lies, I know. So, this year, instead, I’m going to tell you what I wish for myself, how I’m going to try to represent myself daily, and I hope you make a similar pledge, something you write true to yourself, something that makes you ready for 2017.  And obvious disclaimer, I’m not perfect, not even close. I’m pretty awful most days. But, every new year is a time to do something new, bold, memorable and FUCKING AMAZING. And if nothing else, I’ll try to do that. Anyone with me?

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Here we go, Happy 2017!!–
Talk to everyone, not just the person you think it’ll impress. Being kind is far more superior than being popular. And everyone, remember, has a story.

Remember a name, and never forget someone’s story. They told it to you for a reason.

Eat all the weird things.  Some weird things are nice. And if you hate it, spit it on a napkin quietly, throw it out when you pee, and make yourself a sandwich when no one is looking.

Hug everyone who looks like they need it, and maybe, those who don’t. A hug holds far more magic than you could ever imagine. And hugs are free. And sometimes, they save a soul.

Stop judging each other.  No one is as rich or smart or fancy as they make seem on social media. A size 6 in one place is a size 4, 8, 13, and 16 in another.  Everyone’s children are awful,  and they all, at one time or another, smear shit on walls or siblings or us when the rest of you aren’t looking through The Facebook. Your lawn is not better kept than mine just because you took a picture the one day a year you had it mowed.  Your picture with your painted toes on the lawn chair, on the beach, with the ocean in the background does not imply that you did not miss confessional (again) or that your child doesn’t eat rocks or that you wouldn’t trade a paycheck for a month’s worth of childless and husbandless naps.  Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat and all of THE INTERNETS is just a fucking lie.  We’re not who we are in our posts.  Unless we’re talking about the posts of filled wine glasses that I post on days that end in Y that I post for moral support.  Those are legit fucking real.  Anyway.  We all love a good filter, me included, but let’s let it stop there.  We aren’t all our filter selves, and no one should expect us to be.

A cheers to celebrate a drink is a universal sign of acceptance and friendship. Never be afraid to cheers a new friend–you’re probably making one for a lifetime.

Smiles are as free as hugs, though, don’t ask the Germans because they say the reason they never smile is BECAUSE SMILES ARE NOT FREE. This is why we don’t listen to Germans. However, smiles ARE FREE, and, sometimes, someone has been waiting for one for a very long time. Give them freely and honestly, and with love. You’d think they are carelessly tossed away, but for some, they’re not, and they’re the difference in the world.

Travel to the one new place you can afford to get to.  You don’t need to go to Japan, Africa or Cancun to make a difference in your life.  Sometimes, even that quiet piece of woods two towns over becomes the comforting slice of heaven you’ve been needing for all of time.  Water, sunshine and lots of dirt can cure far more things than money can buy, I promise. Get dirty and find your new place.  Maybe you’ll realize you have a new safe place you never thought you needed.

If you love someone, right or wrong timing, tell them–drunk OR sober. 🙂 There’s only one exact time in life for love, and it is always now, right now. Once you’ve blinked, it may be too late, and no one, no one ever, has been worse off in this life for being loved too hard or too much.

Stop hating women and empower them. I’m not going to get political, but this goes for men and women. If you are a woman, be proud and help another woman. Don’t be jealous and and spiteful in playgroups and social media or the workplace. Raise each other up, help each other with your families, be a light of hope and kindness and not a loud voice full of judgement and snark. And men? You have been surrounded by women who loved you your whole life. Love your own and make a good example of yourselves for your family. It’s hard to believe I need to add this to my goals in 2017 but can we just fucking love women in general and move the living fuck on?
Do that hobby that makes you happy. Shake, sweat, create, write, yell, run, build, snap, work hard, bust ass, paint, glitter, fix, nurture, love, cook, study, learn. Never stop. You only have until that last breathe and we never know just quite when it will come, do we?

Love the person that tells you they love you for your mind.  That person is the 1%, and that person means it, and you’ll maybe never find that person again.  Also, be the person who tells someone else this.  Lipgloss and gym memberships can be bought.  Crazy, bold and wild minds cannot be bought or tamed.
The world is only a better place if you participate in it. Stop complaining. Stop making noise. Meet people, read a book, donate money or your time. Try your inside voice instead of your shouting voice. Really, it’s going to be a tough year, and we all need to reach out. If you haven’t found something you love to support and be proactive in, give it a try. There’s a cause for everyone, and this world can’t hold up without us all trying.
Learn from your regret and mistakes and make the world blaze from your lessons. Stand tall in your hurt and shout from the highest of highs the lessons you’ve learned. You earned it. You deserve it. And no one can make you a better person than you can.

Forgive.  Maybe most important and least used lesson each year.  I don’t know what YOU need to do, what you need to forgive or forget.  So I’ll give you the short list of what I need to forgive, and maybe you’ll see something along my spewing that makes you think maybe you should do the same.  What would I forgive? Myself, for all of these: Being so very imperfect, for not giving a fuck, for expecting people to order respectable beers, for not toning it down, for expecting the world to make sense, for hating people who ask for steaks well done, for expecting people to not act like back woods idiots during an election year, for not asking for an apology for my life, for not giving the apologies I should have and meant to but never got around to, for not saving lives, for not using my inside voice, for not being a perfect parent, for not writing enough, for not listening enough, for not napping enough, for not eating chips and cookies and butter every last chance I ever had, for not caring if my jean size was smaller than my shoe size, for swimming in public w no clothes on, for not drinking more gin because I know gin is just awful for me but actually magic but seriously awful for everyone involved, for not learning how not to give non verbal cues in the workplace and public where people don’t appreciate the accidental looks that I can’t (or don’t try to) control w my face, for not learning how to clean a house, for not learning how to cook meals like chicken finger salad or grilled cheese which APPARENTLY DO NOT COUNT, for singing too loudly and off-key because I think Adele and I basically have the same talent but I’m just not discovered yet, for wearing my jeans unwashed for 12 days at a time or just sweatpants 217 days a year because seriously, FUCK PANTS.  For pretty much everything I do on a daily basis, so let’s be real, it’s The Year 2017, and I’m probably close to being a lost cause already and it’s Day One.

So, as my hours in the First Day draw to and end, I’ll leave you with the above .  Hopefully, if you made it through this post, I’ve helped you with your goals, worked you through your issues and geared you up for another fulfilling and amazing New Year.  It’s going to be a great one, friends.  It’s just what you make of it.  Don’t you dare fucking let me down.  🙂