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.

hsh

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.