MILPs

Posted on February 26, 2013 by Scattermom

Moms I‘d Like to Punch, aka MILPs.

Yes, I recognize the inherent wrongness in wanting to punch someone in the face. Admitting such an urge for violent reaction sent my Inner Hippie in a mad dash for the patchouli and organically grown chamomile tea.

But my Inner Angry Bitch? The ass-kicker? The one I attempt to mute through kick-boxing, crowbar-related home ~~demolition~~ renovation, and mindless kindle reading?

She prefers tequila shots to chamomile and, well… we don’t let her out much.

I like the idea of releasing my annoyance out into the matrix. Not weekly, not monthly. Periodically.

Sidenote: I had just about finished this post a few weeks ago, but ended up getting an argument with JB about tub caulk. It felt incriminating to post a blog on my sporadic temper control issues, while defending my fervently-held, yet calmly-communicated, position on caulk.

Why a picture of my temper stuff? Because the info seems to repeat itself in several other draft posts. And who doesn’t like wasting an hour with a persnickety version of photoshop?

The metamorphosis from angry bitch to calm, patient human has met its zenith at not-quite 100%. So rather than continuing the fruitless search for my recessive Buddha, I started instead to use my pointless Rage Superpower.

How? As real-life teaching moments with my kids; examples of when maturity is the only thing standing between your comfortable life and rocking it Correction-Department Style.

I’m looking at you, Ms. Texts While Driving 80 mph in your Gas-guzzling SUV.

Immaturity would be ramming my car smack into her very expensive bumper, shoving her and her Kate Spade off the planet.

Sidenote: Adults like to pretend children define the majority of the immature and impulsive in society.

In a word, Bullshit.

Anyway. So I occasionally experience semi-violent urges that I have mostly suppressed since 15 year old me had the last Unfortunate Meeting between fist and brick wall.

My first MILP comes to us from the world of snow/south/school delays.

January, or Snowpocalypse 1.0, happened and with it came an early release from school because of the threat of snow. What? I live in the South, that’s how we roll down here. Oh, and no one took the “one inch of snow” thing seriously a decade ago and no one that lived here has forgotten.

Take a moment and imagine being stuck in the car for 15 hours with a hungry six year old. Or your six year old being stuck overnight at the school. Or being the teacher, stuck overnight at a school with your six year old while HER six year old is stuck in a car for 15 hours.

Just last week the school delay, outcry from MILP happened all over again, thankyouverymuchNCweather, I got to bring it out again.

When the residents in the land of Sweet Tea and Bless Your Heart hear about snow they get excited, then they panic. The yankee transplants roll their eyes and call us stupid. Then they get out and drive.

Sure you bitches can drive on snow, but we get ice and you, my friend, are no penguin.

Every. Single. Year. Two hour delay– but it’s just rain! Yeah, yeah. Snow paralyzes us with its shiny coldness.

Hurricanes? Meh, it’s just a little wind and rain.

Yes, they often cancel school for no reason (this last time was seriously JUST RAIN), but still. When your ass doesn’t have a paying job you really should just shut the hell up.

Being a Mom Makes me do Weird Things

Posted on February 21, 2013 by Scattermom

As I held the teeny-tiny toes to a fishing lure frog, my fingers gummy with super glue, I knew I had something for Andrea’s You Know you’re a Mom When link up.

Behold, the inspiration. One squishy frog that brought such joy to the youngest Small Person that I felt my cynical heart peek out from the ashed remains of my hope for humanity. Elliot is, with a select few things, very easy to please.

Elliot and Frogly (not misspelled) cavorted together in their bath. Elliot told Frogly all about the blanket house they would build together. I listened to Elliot explain the safety rules betwixt Frog and Dog.

And then…

Frogly’s puny little toes fell off. At bedtime. An over-tired 4 year old’s bedtime.

Ah, the evening trifecta arrives just in time to relight the flames.

How do I know I’m a mom? Because I doctored up Frogly’s foot with super-glue, that’s how. And, as I wrestled with tape reinforcements (a cast, right?), JB checked the tackle box, finding duplicate Frogly.

We all live another day.

But wait– there’s more. Z has been rereading all of his “How to Train Your Dragon” books, in between which we’ve have long conversations about mythology, historical timelines, and evolution. When he asked, “Mom, can you…uh… make me a picture of everything important since, like, the dinosaurs?”

I assumed google was gonna hook me up. One free infographic on history from dinosaurs until now … what? No FREE INFOGRAPHIC? Cue microsoft word, insert tables, copy row, and carpal-tunnel-inducing cut and paste.

No worries– there WILL be a free infographic. Eventually.

But I did find out how to make him a viking helmet out of a t-shirt, duck tape, and some tin foil.

So. Many. Jokes.

Apparently this one has heard all the jokes. He was not a fan of viking helmet good times.

He did put on the Toothless tail though.

Sidebar: Go back up to the picture of viking Zach. Look down and right. See where I still haven’t rehung the doors on the armoire-turned-food-pantry (from January 2012) in my kitchen? Bah-ha-ha… I love me.

Finally, the coup de grâce– the tee-pee. Now, before y’all start throwing jokes, I’d like to point out a few things.

Alright, I used the jig saw for some of the large stuff, but c’mon!

Of course, now I want to build a yurt.

I’m also linking up to Blogher’s February NaBloPoMo, because, well, I wrote a post.

Ermahgerd. Save Yourself

Posted on February 9, 2013 by Scattermom

Y’all, I took one for the team. Now, I beg of you, learn from my mistake and ermagherd, save yourself.

Like me, you’ll be rushing through a store in search of some cheap– yet heartfelt–valentine’s day gift. In my case, I was at the fabric store buying foam to finish kindergarten seat cushions. Not cheap, but definitely heartfelt.

These will catch your eye; pretty packaging with guarantees of cherry flavor peeking shyly from the shelf, stroking the yearning hunger brewing deep in your belly.

Lecherous temptation spreads, provoked by a thousand fingertips caressing your neck and spine.

Heart pounding a rhythm crying “please, please”, begging for fulfillment.

“Yes. YES”, whispers the package’s now brazen answer. Shy no more, it boldly highlights the sugar-crusted marshmallow, the drizzled chocolate.

Trembling fingers stretch, stroke, and, finally, retrieve the long package. Hidden securely beneath a giant roll of foam, you pay and exit into the cover of the coming nightfall.

Cocooned in a car illuminated by only the soft glow of a distant street light, the muffled sounds of nearby traffic punctuated by the crinkling paper as it drops away like panties on a whore.

Your tongue reaches out for a tentative taste. Stronger now, you commit, biting fully into a treat long denied.

For a moment a low moan of deep satisfaction escapes you, filling the car…

And then… all of the chemicals masking the reality of your confection fall away. Your brain screams, “NOOOOOOoooo…. it’s a trick”, as your throat betrays you with a swallow.

Despite the roar of “that was fucking disgusting”, your hand, obviously consumed with demonic intent, places the second confection into your sticky mouth.

Maybe the second time will be better—- ARRGGGHHHHH. No! Worse! It’s worse!

Don’t do it, people. Save yourself.

Getting Lost in the Hyperfocus

Posted on February 5, 2013 by Scattermom

Back in December, I touched on hyperfocus and adult ADHD, or as I like to think of it: Getting Lost in the Hyperfocus. Maybe I can visit there with my TARDIS?

To reiterate, ADHD involves focal struggles, but the colloquial paradigm of focusing (snort) on focus problems unfairly turned those into The Biggest Deal. Of course fidgeting and/or the glassy-eyed ceiling stare easily captures someone else’s attention (snort 2). But those cliched examples overshadow the primary long-term challenge for an ADHD brain, executive function: defined as neurocognitive processes that maintain an appropriate problem-solving set to attain a later goal.

Let’s focus (puns, like them I do) on my personal Top 4 of ADHD Life Challenges: stabilizing focus; the details are gonna get ya; getting lost in the hyperfocus; and executive function (e.g., Do you have a Plan?).

Examples are good, right? As an aside, why do all uterus-clenching bad dreams climax at 3am?

Anyway.

Consider the subconscious-driven, Poe-worthy, eyelid-screen-playing terrors that yank you from sleep, leaving behind a pounding heart, clenched fists, and the childish need to GET YOUR FEET UNDER THE SHEET. Eventually you go back to sleep, certain to remember each detail; after all the writer recognizes that horror as an urban fantasy goldmine.

Morning arrives, coffee is poured ~~on your hand~~ in your cup, and you sit to begin documentation on the masterpiece that will seal your yoga-pants wearing future. You find… nothing… but a vague imprint of terror. The details, completely gone.

Now what? Do you drink your coffee and try harder to recall the dream details? Do you free write? Did you even grab a pencil? Most people sitting down to write would have grabbed pencil and paper, yes?

By the time you’ve found something other than crayon to use on a surface other than construction paper, you wasted the remainder of the morning.

What if life found you lost, unprepared, and feeling moronic? Every day, at least once, sometimes more? Please note, it’s not the high-level stuff that makes me feel stupid; it’s the being overwhelmed by permission slips, purchasing postage stamps, and commas.

Yet cooking with Small People stresses me out to the point of sweating and hand-flapping.

So yeah, getting lost in the hyperfocus looks damning from an outsider’s point of view. Starting a new novel at 11pm and continuing to read for 4 hours represents both a choice, and an executive planning fail.

In reality, a vital part of my internal defense system ties into the laser-like tunnel-vision of hyperfocus. And my semi-neurotic list creation. The alarm I program in warning for an upcoming reminder.

Since I can’t wear headphones all day, I use hyperfocus to block the trivial annoyances (itchy bra tag, sand in my socks, humming light bulb, someone chewing gum) that stealth bomb my focus with their Distraction Drones.

Tragically, most coping mechanisms include a flip side. For example, three rooms away my oldest child reads to his brother. My husband types. Outside of my window, sleet pings against the metal gutter. But one sound– the sniff, sniff, SNIFF of someone’s running nose rattles through all the rest until I’m screaming, “BLOW YOUR NOSE”.

Starting and Stopping

I feel Newton and his first Law of Motion nailed the issue of executive function and hyperfocus.

Requiring yourself to level up to hyperfocus to finish tasks with more than 4 stops? The inability to halt an obviously destructive path?

Meet my arch-nemesis, Inertia. Getting started sucks, but wait– stopping sucks more.

I don’t love that part of my ADHD. Nor do any of the non-ADHD people interacting with me on a regular basis. For the longest time (oh, like 9 years) it never occurred to me that my hyperfocus-induced tendency to procrastinate affected my husband. He’s certainly not going to sew 25 seat cushions for the kindergarten. Alright, fair point– never would he accidentally volunteer to sew 25 seat cushions.

But guess who’s on the hook for everything else while I sob over my seam ripper? Whoopsy.

My favorite thing about having typically-brained (well, not ADHD-brained) spouse? Patience. He’ll sit for an hour to activate my new cell phone, because the idea of waiting that long on the phone? Shudder.

Muter. He’s learned how to navigate away from the default setting of being my Personal Brain Dump Receptor. My increased empathy definitely sprouted from being on the karmatic other side with my 6 year old, but still.

All of my successful long-term relationships include a person comfortable enough with asking that I shut up for a minute.

I make JB “talk more than anyone else. ever.” In return he stops my Verbal Vomit Faucet.

Balance. Important, that.

This post was written in participation of Blogher’s NaBloPoMo February 2013.

I Feel Strong Affection for Him

Posted on February 4, 2013 by Scattermom

I feel strong affection for him, this man I married a decadeish ago. We met, dated, cohabited, married.

We procreated. Twice.

Barely 6 months into our relationship, and two weeks after graduating college, moving to a new city and into our first apartment, my father got sick.

Three months after that, my father died.

That’s a large chunk of Really Stressful Life Moments crammed into the first year.

What saved us?

Loyalty. His, not mine. I can look back, with no small amount of guilt, and recognize that I gave almost nothing back that first year. I would have left me.

Separation. He either traveled, or worked the typical Monday through Friday, 9-5. I worked retail, lots of weekends and a lot of second shift. We rarely overlapped.

Moving. We added a dog, moved to a different apartment in a different city. We both changed jobs and started working (theoretically) similar schedules.

Wipes a tear, chucking. I’ll never forget that time when work made me very late to marriage counseling. The winning point went to JB; the therapist rarely took my side after that night.

We’ve never sustained the Burning Grand Passion present in all the romance novels. Moments, weeks, months. Yes.

A lifetime? Not going to happen. Reality smells like morning breath, not chocolate.

We compliment, but do not complete, each other.

Similar religious (no thanks) and political (he’s solidly liberal, I’m more ~~dirty~~ hippie) positions help make our relationship work.

He always gets the religious references in television and movies.
Then explains them to me while laughingly singing about what a Dummy Heathen he married.

I point out all of the mysterious pop-culture references he never notices. We’re working our way through a solid list of 80s/90s cult classics. He’s never seen a single John Hughes movies, people.

Part of our education included him watching The Shining. I had to go hide in the bedroom; cheesy denim jumper notwithstanding, that movie FreaksMeTheHell out.

Redrum. Indeed.

Our differences fill an ocean. The big one.

He likes to be out with people in the world, an extrovert. He’s shy and doesn’t always jump into conversations. He rarely offends strangers, almost never makes glaring social faux pas.

I like to be away from the people in the world, an introvert. I’m not shy and often jump, push, shove my way into the most random of conversations. I offend people on principle, accidentally dropping social faux pas like Gretel dropped crumbs.

I can go days cocooned within the walls of my home to the point that my voice goes scratchy with disuse.

After a mere eight hours he starts clawing the door.

He views the world tinted by happy rose-colored glasses, expecting the best until people prove otherwise. He practices tolerance and acceptance.

I see the world through narrowed eyes as they peer through mud-colored lenses. I anticipate the worst from everyone, choosing surprise over disappointment. I can be critical and judgmental.

We work. Most of the time.

This post was written in participation of Blogher’s NaBloPoMo February 2013 theme: Love and Sex.

Blogging Every Day

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Scattermom

I’m expanding my goal (in other words, actually making an effort) to write every day. I have a novel in me, y’all– but not here. Not even gasp about parenting.

The best part of a coincidence is when it’s two lovely things coinciding, like my goal and Blogher’s February 2013 NaBloPoMo, which you can find here.

Here I am blogging on Day 1 despite some server issues with my hosting company making this feel like vintage dial-up. I had a different topic, but the vintage dial-up thing keeps reminding me of:

scattermom.com

You see? Too slow. ADHD can’t take it any longer. Must.Run.Away.

Sticky. The New Modge Podge. The Unsung Decorative Texture.

Posted on January 30, 2013 by Scattermom

Watch how quickly I can rock this thought out.

Sticky. The left behind of whatever substances making contact with the Small People. I wipe, wash, and scrub, but that shit never goes away. Part of me suspects (hopes) that what’s left behind is not grossness, but what happens to wood after 6 years of wiping. Of course, that doesn’t explain the sink now does it.

Could I use the remnants of morning oatmeal as a replacement for modge podge? Furthermore, they are 4 and 6– why the daily pile of oatmeal on the table?

Or perhaps a use as the Unsung Decorative Texture: if I embrace Sticky’s presence in my home will it be become less disgusting to peel my bare thighs off a dining room chair?

Could I combine these two realities into a living social art experiment? Where I modge podge our life onto, well, the surfaces of our life?

Can you imagine the layers upon layers of fundraising documents, announcements, credit card offers, art work, and take out napkins? That almost sounds really cool, yeah?

I understand, and accept, that my future life won’t be full of glamorous intrigue. Alright, no bullshit, I can’t really blame that on kids.

But still.

Of all the little moments of parenting that common sense forced me to anticipate, and that years of parenting finally made me accept (the 12 steps, if you will), the constant assault on my person from the sticky residue still manages to surprise me.

Why is Exercising at Home so Hard?

Posted on January 14, 2013 by Scattermom

I started trying to exercise at home 3 months post-partum with Elliot. A replicable correlation existed between his screaming and the first televised frame including a pony-tail/sports-bra wearing person.

Since I agreed with his peevish irritation at these women–- and their functioning pelvic floors-– I was quick to turn them off in favor potato chip. Or 50.

I considered joining a gym, with childcare. But they are expensive and none of them send a limo to my house forcing me to actually go. Exercising at home is so hard– but going somewhere else to do it is harder. For me.

Then I started running. And I ran. A lot.

Then I didn’t run for a long time.

And I won’t run in the dark, or on the treadmill.
Or in a box, with a fox– wait, I got mixed up with Dr. Suess again.

A) Refusing to run at night while still B) wanting to run should logically result in C) waking up earlier.

Logic– she be a bitch. Attempts at molding myself into a cheerful, alarm-clock setting, morning person continue to be ~~completely~~ unsuccessful.

Wait– you are a morning person; 2 AM is the morning. Technically, yes– but unhelpful for my purposes as I’m certain that most of those running at 2 AM are being chased.

All of the above frippery merely to announce that I queued a bunch of fitness/dance/yoga videos on youtube so I could ~~torture Elliot~~ workout in the afternoon.

I’ve asked Elliot to join me– especially with the kick-boxing– to which he responds by gently suggesting that I’ve lost my damn mind.

He and I– we’ve got a thing.

Thus, imagine my surprise, when during the belly dancing portion (don’t judge– have you seen the curves on traditional belly-dancers? Obviously these are my people), E sat up from his self-imposed couch prison, cocked an eyebrow, and said,

“wow, mom. You can really shake your butt!”

I’ve decided that he’s complimenting my superior dance moves, rather than commenting on the jiggle in my wiggle. But I sneaked cauliflower into his lasagna as revenge, just in case.

Good Mothers own the TARDIS Tent

Posted on January 8, 2013 by Scattermom

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to have funnier blog titles. Between why parenting is a like a glade plugin and why a owning the TARDIS tent makes me a good mother? Nailed it.

A recent conversation with my oldest child.

Z: “Mom, I’m going to invent a time machine, that way I never have to go to school”.

Me: “You’ll need to know a lot about physics, which you learn in school, to map all of those wormholes.”

Z, without missing a beat: “yeah, but they don’t teach science in kindergarten, so I’ll just go ahead and skip to high school. It’s really for the best.”

I’m fielding this shit at 8:32 in the morning– the exact moment when everyone should be dressed and smoothly transitioning from the house to the car.

Instead I’m screaming “you’re still not wearing pants! at a kid trying to invent time travel so he can skip school.

In kindergarten.

I love the vivid imagination of my kids, partly because it’s something the three of us share, but mostly because Entertainment by Daydream inches closer to extinction with every technological advance. Without clinical boredom, there aren’t any daydreams; and one cannot transcend into clinical boredom with an electronic device.

Of course I need to take my own advice; y’all are missing my point. That point being that I’m supportive mother, dammit.

I’m also a Doctor Who newbie. In fact, I’m only 5 episodes into the 9th incarnation and my own fantasy about being Christopher Eccleston’s companion.

Cough. Sigh.

I guess my parents didn’t watch The Doctor when I was a kid? Too busy populating my nightmares with the brain-eating eels from the Wrath of Khan, I suppose.

It was easter, and I was seven. Thanks, Dad.

Thankfully (and deliberately) I’ve filled my life with fellow geeks and playing their facebook statuses backward plants subliminal Doctor suggestions.

Which is why the TARDIS will exist in my home. I’m not committed to the where yet, as JB quickly (and unfairly) vetoed my plan for a TARDIS-shaped bed.

I planned to just build it anyway, because, really, THAT’S WHO I AM.

But then someone showed me this TARDIS tent. . . And I thought about the symbology of TARDIS and how I can’t even pee without one of them asking me a question through the door.

All I have to do is convince them that I’m NOT HERE when inside the TARDIS. Which will make my oldest child even more determined to solve the time travel problem– since he’s all about how awesome I am.

His understandable attachment to me (remember, I’m in a parallel universe) can only encourage his love of science, eventually leading to him winning the nobel prize for his work in physics.

This, friends, is how buying myself a TARDIS tent makes me a good and supportive mother

All of you? You’re welcome.

Why Parenting is like Having Too Many Glade Plugins

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Scattermom

Parenting is like a having too many Glade Plugins?

DISCLAIMER: I really don’t use glade plugins anymore, but I do buy a wide variety of essential oils that get plugged into an outlet diffuser (which looks suspiciously similar to the glade plugin doohickey). I suspect my next big conspiracy theory will involve Dick Cheney owning my organic oil company, and secretly updating the recipe to chemically-altered fossil fuels that only smell like peppermint. muhaha!

But back to parenting and glade plugins. Let me guess your first two questions:

1) Aren’t you a little too much of a hippie to use glade plug ins, Stephanie?

Yes, of course I am! Why in the hell would I pay money to pollute my indoor air? I can go outside and get polluted air for FREE. Beyond that, the plastic pouch full of chemical-laden, noxious fumes that Glade calls perfume gives me migraines.

2) Ah, I see; your statement parenting is like too many glade plugins is an analogy.
So. You’ve lost your mind?

No! Well, maybe, but not about this.

Once upon a time, like 6 years ago, I had a friend who loved glade plugins. To the tune of at least one plugin per room, often differing in scent.

You’re still not really grasping the horror, are you?

Here- walk in my mind for a minute.

Take a long-haired dog and add water. Roll dog in swamp mud, some other dog’s poop, then throw the dog at a terrified skunk.

Then spray the dog with seven different bottles of perfume, and at least 5 different aerosol bathroom sprays. Febreeze the poor thing JUST IN CASE.

You can’t out-stink a dog and a skunk.

That was her house– except she DIDN’T HAVE A DOG.

But she couldn’t smell any of the ~~suffocating~~ lingering perfume/stank anymore. The nose adjusts, you see.

It’s the same phenomenon that allows me to forget that my hall bathroom probably reeks of urine. Don’t judge me; I hit the bowl every time. And I totally threw that in here in case you ever come over and pee in the bathroom. IT’S NOT ME.

So, you see, parenting is like your nose. It just sort of . . . adjusts. As your children age, you are paying attention, but not rea–

Forgive me, this is just easier: you can no longer smell what the Rock is cooking.

This isn’t always a bad thing, as it also means that your little Dumplin’ has clawed his way off the 40x magnification of the parental microscope.

But I digress–
In the middle of a typical– mind-numbing, time-sucking, soul-leaching– day as I strive toward the trend of positive (must-be-over-valium-ed) parenting I realized that I had gotten used to their scent.

That I had gotten used to their reactions, their talents, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Somehow I had stopped being impressed by all of those things; I was failing to notice the scented perfume of their youthfulness. Other people– friends, teachers, and family– can still smell them.

So instead of opening a window for some fresh air, I kept (metaphorically) trying to cover up the rottenness of their discontent.

I pushed Zach to be a better 2nd grader.

Which is fine, except he’s in kindergarten.

I pushed Elliot. I fully expected the LOUD that has been his normal since rocking it Placenta Style would transition seamlessly to an appreciation for quiet.

Guess what happens when you push kids too hard? They fucking push back. Then everyone stands around shoving and poking at each other, until finally calling Game Over because YOU are the ADULT, dammit!

Ha. Adult. Whatever.

Like a house with too many glade plug-ins, the fumes from all those expectations were masking the stink. Problem solved.