Prose: "Breaking the Barrier"

I don’t know how to compete against the memory of a girl that unwantingly has held his heart all of his adult life. Not even a memory, I guess. Because she is still there. She still exists. She hadn’t even wanted him since high school, more than fifteen years ago, and I want him more than any man I’ve ever met. Yet she is still my rival, my biggest competition.

He says he doesn’t want her. Not in the least. And I suppose I believe him. But in my heart, I am not sure it’s the fact of his physically wanting her that really bothers me. I am less afraid of the concrete than I am of the abstract. And his feelings for her are abstract. His place for her in his life is abstract. His place for her in his heart is abstract. I am queen of his concrete world. I reign supreme over his laundry, his aches and pains that require rub downs and massages, his shirts that need ironing before his shift begins at 4 am. I sit in a throne of power over his homemade dinners cooked every night, his twins that I carry within my body, his lustful needs in bed, his prescriptions that need filling at Walgreen’s. But I have no idea what that means. Because for some reason, that doesn’t translate into anything more…no special place in his heart, no certain weakness over his being, no unwanted power over his mind, body or soul.

Love for him requires my appreciation and dedication to the work around the house that he finds important. Making sure there are no random papers on the back of the couch from when my older son brought me his latest work from school. Putting the dirty dishes immediately in the dishwasher and the clean dishes immediately back in their place. Washing, drying and folding the clothes. Keeping our home free of clutter. Making sure my side of the bed is clean. If I do these things, for the most part, he’ll be happy. If I tell him what a man he is, how responsible he is, how much I appreciate the work he puts into keeping our family fed and sheltered, he’ll be happy. But I am not.

Love for me requires physical touch. Not sexual, although that would qualify as well. I need the hand on the thigh when we are sitting near each other. A touch on the back of the neck when he passes me. Our feet meeting in secret under covers while we sleep. It also requires words of affection. I do not need to hear “I love you,” simply because I doubt that you love me, but because the mere sound of those three words, in that order, bring tidal waves of joy and happiness into my heart, provide for me a sense of calm and home, a euphoric sense of peace. These things are the hardest for him to do.

That was not how it was at the beginning though. He wanted affection and gave it back. Freely. But now I live with some monstrous, alternate, twilight zone version of him. Someone who shops online for himself and doesn’t think to ask if I needed anything. Someone that has yet to really “surprise” me with a little special something that I don’t really need that he didn’t need to give to me, other than to show his adoration or love. Someone that is able to walk out the door to a fourteen hour long day of work without even as much as a peck on the cheek.

Sometimes I’ll say things such as, “It’s hard, I’m pregnant with your babies, it’s a constant reminder of you,” and he’ll respond with a sarcastic and angry, “Thanks, Like I needed you to remind me of that.” What does that mean? Why can’t I say it out loud? And doesn’t that make me special? Doesn’t that make me different? Doesn’t that change the way that he should look at me, present me to the world, think of me? I don’t get it (another one of his least favorite phrases of mine). I don’t. The minute I knew we were pregnant, the minute he went from “boyfriend” to “daddy,” his position in my life forever changed. I would do anything for this man. I do anything for this man. When he wakes at 3:30 am for his day of work, I rollover with him and massage his back, lotion him up, do what I can to make my man feel good about having to wake at 3:30 am to take care of his family and his home. And when I am done with that, I get out his white shirt and I iron, with starch, just like he likes it—despite the fact that the smell of the starch makes me sick. AND AFTER THAT, I’ll ask him if we wants anything to eat for the day, the morning, whatever, and I’ll go to the kitchen and make him his two sandwiches, just the way he likes them with turkey and bacon and cheese on toasted bread, or pack him a Tupperware full of leftovers from the homemade dinner the night before, and get his energy drinks or bottle of water with iced tea packet. Haven’t I earned my place in is world, if not just through carrying his babies, but through my actions, my sacrifices, for him?
I am his burden. I am not his greatest love or his most precious possession. I am his burden. I dare anyone to wake up every morning with that knowledge. I dare anyone to try to react normally to abnormal situations in their relationship with that sitting in the back of their mind. It’s impossible. Everything feels like a test, and around every corner you are looking for a shred of evidence that you have moved up the ladder. “Oh yes, I know he’ll show me this time that I am not just his burden…that I am more, I am his love, his woman, his queen or at least his princess…maybe this time, no, that time…maybe…” While another woman held secret dominion over him for 15 years, yet paid him little of this attention. Rejected him. Kept him at bay. Flaunted her hurt at other men not loving her in front of him, pranced her pain of random relationships in his face and around him while he held her on a pedestal, made her his greatest love, gave her the position of sacred woman, beloved woman, the only woman with a hold over of his heart. My heart is breaking. My heart is breaking. My heart is breaking.

I have given him everything I have, everything I am, but it is still not enough. I am empty. And now my dreams, which I shared with him when we first met and stayed up for all hours of the night talking about impossible dreams, are dying. We discussed a kind of love that could occur when two people vowed to take care of each other. If I were devoted to you and your happiness, and you were devoted to me and my happiness, then we would share the most wonderful, selfless kind of love and live in bliss for years to come. But what happens when someone doesn’t hold up his or her end of the bargain? I am the answer. You are an empty vessel. And your heart will break. And then, you will start to fill yourself back up, you will gain back your confidence, you will regain your strength, but you will lose your dream and you will slowly slip away from that other human being, who may not notice at first, but who will eventually see and may or may not come around at that point. But, it will be too late.

Ironically, that his how he lost the other woman. The woman that has unwantingly held onto his heart. She had to let go. When she did, he slowly began to come around. Maybe her power over him has been guilt. Maybe I need to walk away too. Maybe then he’ll come around. But I don’t want to hold any power that comes from guilt. I want the deep and unending equal power of love.

My Recap of Blog her At Home '09

What can I say.  Fairly new to the blogging scene, I had seen tweets about an impending BlogHer ’09 conference in Chicago.  Having no real understanding of the who, what or why of the conference, but knowing it was nearby, I was anxious.  Should I go? Should I try to see what’s up in the hot blogging world?

Nope.  No tickets.

Okay, I saw some tweets about parties, and some of the blogs I had started reading boasted about the best parties to attend.  Room 704? The People’s Party? I reserved a spot.  I would try.  I saw that some bloggers were making a road trip just for the gathering, the ambiance, the camaraderie.

Okay, I would try.  But I was a newbie.  No one really knew who I was.  Would it be awkward? Who was I kidding??? Of COURSE, it would be! Because, truly, I live under the blogger/twitter radar.  I am just themommytsunami.  I am not UndomesticDiva or AMomTwoBoys or RedneckMommy.  I am not AChild’sPlayx2 or BackpackingDad.  I am just me.  And who really wants to meet me?

Of course, the internet provides a courage to stand behind (read: rock to hide under).  I can jot my thoughts, my plight and my personal feelings and give a colorful play by play of my life without recourse, hopefully without judgment, and with ANONYMITY.  So, who was I to complain?

Thursday night, the night of the parties I had anticipated attending, I could not get out of the house.  The hubby had been called to work and I was sans babysitter.  I would sit in. However…there was that internet…and I had read a ton about the Blog Her At Home event… What would that be all about?

Having the internet (once again) to hide behind give me some courage, I logged on to (an UNPROTECTED) tinychat and entered the virtual party room.  Filled with lively convo and some trolls (hello, no, we would show you our bewbs and no, we are not interested in your man parts), I found myself typing while HeartMyChloe, PrincessJenn, BOREDmommy and a many others popped in and out of a webcam chat.  I didn’t have the password.  It wasn’t an option, but I’m not sure I would have joined anyway…

The night ended for me as a HeartMyChloe mentioned she was saying GOODBYE to themommytsunami.  WHAT?!?!?! Someone noticed ME? Lil’ ol’ ME? Noooo.  Suddenly, it was like the rock had been turned over someone had pulled the internet anonymity I had been so used to enjoying.  But, I blushed.  My presence was known.  And by this amazing group of women!  I would have to return the next night…

And I did.  And I WEBCAMMED! Holy shit! People saw me and they did not reject me.  The asked my story, questioned my name!  We shared drinks together, we shared laughter together.  I learned about vanilla vodka and dr. pepper.  I learned BadAssDadBlog enjoyed his patron in huge jugs and made his margaritas with salt rimmed glasses.  I learned painful life stories and I shared that pain.  We connected.  It was amazing. There was a community formed.  A community that was involved and concerned with the members of that community (we didn’t want to log off Kimt205!) and sincerely reached out to each other. I totally luff you, @pbandjazz, @ShelliWazzu, @analogmoon, @earth_mommy, @irishsamom, @leighish, @ladybugsgrama, @knoxvillepixie, @themaggers, @lilfootsmommy, @thepsychobabbly, @anne54304, @moon, @deidra23 and everyone else I can’t remember the exact names of, but you know who you are!!!

I came back for a third night.  Let me explain.  The first two nights it was EASY.  The kids asleep in bed, dh at work.  No disruptions.  The only person I was responsible to entertain for was me. But, night three, Saturday night, I had dh.  And I’m gonna be honest.  I really wanted him to go out, go to work or LEAVE ME ALONE.  I was chatting with mah GURLS.  I was busy.  Thanks to vanilla vodka and dr. pepper, I was also DRUNK.  I did a fashion show.  The women that night made me laugh.  I was imbibed enough to go online, on the spot, and find that liquid courage had brought me to say, that YES, in fact, I am ONE OF THEM.  I am a blogger and a Twitterer.  I am themommytsunami.  And I belonged at BlogHer ’10 in NYC.

As did HeartMyChloe, with whom I will be roomies and road trippin’ it with to get there!

Sunday.  I was super tired.  I had work on Monday morning (early) and I could find the energy to stay up past 8:30 pm.  But, if I had, I would have been at tinychat with the most fabulous and funnest women ever.  EVAH.

Ya’ hear? Thank you, Blog Her At Home ’09.  You were my coming out (for me) party to this blogger world.  And I cannot imagine my life pre-YOU.

See how much FUN I am having?

ETA: I LURVE YOU @masmom. You are hot and you rock.

From my personal non-fiction archives, part II

Okay. So, I am 30 years old by this point. I am married to, but divorcing, a light-skinned black man, with whom I have had two beautiful, gorgeous (swirl) boys with. At this time, they are 5 and 3 years old. Why my marriage didn’t work had nothing to do with the swirl. So, I will not be getting into those details. That’s not just another post but another BLOG all in and of itself! Keep in mind, my mother has told me that no white man will want to raise little black boys. I do not agree, but I am not even necessarily thinking about that yet.

I do feel bad, though. I do not want to keep my boys from their father; I do not want to have my boys be just another addition to alarming statistics (69% of African American children are born to single mothers); I do not want my boys (even more significantly) to not know who they are, hate me or themselves…
Anyway. I am leaving. And now the future becomes unknown. Will I ever have a two-parent household again? Who will be my next (if I have one) significant other? Of what race will he be? Does it matter?
The bottom line is: You cannot change who you fall in love with. Well, I cannot help who I fall in love with. Other people may make decisions about matters of the heart with their minds. I envy those people. Those are the people that marry “well,” right? Marry for status, position, money. Upwardly mobile. I am not that person. Could never be. I live in fairy tales and in romantic whims. God, that must make me hard to live with. But that is a side note. I’m thinking out loud.

Part of who you fall in love with has to do with to whom you are attracted. There is the guy that I am attracted to in words…the guy from tv, the movies, the media. I dig LL Cool J. Jesse L. Martin. Terrance Howard. So, what does that mean? Black, bald, thoughtful, teddy bear, thinker, intelligent? My XH was the teddy bear (I guess). Now I wanted to choose someone with more of what I thought I wanted. A thinker…YES. Thoughtful…YES. Sweet, caring, adventurous, sexy…YES, YES, YES, YESSSSSSSSS!!!

Oh. And black and bald, too…

LOL. Leads me to the man I am in love with now.

I suppose he is just about everything I just said I wanted in the next man I would be with…not because I LOOKED for it, but because it HAPPENED. And he is black, and bald, and SOOOOOOOOO SEXY (to me). He made my heart skip a beat when I first saw him. I love everything about him (physically) and JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING about him otherwise (I mean, come on…NO ONE’S perfect!).

When I started telling my mom about my dream guy that I had just met, her response was a question (to which she already knew the answer)… “and he’s BLACK?“

Yes. So?

She asked me why I couldn’t just fall in love with a nice Polish guy.

Are you freakin’ kidding me???? You didn’t even fall in love with a Polish guy. Either time. So why should I?

Within a very short amount of time (okay, a month and a half), we were pregnant. My guy stepped up to the plate. BIG TIME. Bought us a house. Planned for the future. We are doing the whole family thing. We found out we were pregnant with twins. Twin boys, at that! So, that makes…his oldest (12 yo), my two (6 and 4) and our twins!!! ALL BOYS!!!

And he is a darker skinned black man. Not that it matters/should matter/does matter. It doesn’t matter to me. His family treats me the same, my boys the same. In fact, they treat my boys as their own. Even if someone asks, who are they (they are noticeably darker than my children)? They answer, Our grandbabies. Whose, they ask? Our son, E’s… Oh, they must take after their mother…YES. And??????

And that is how the world should be.

Who cares, light or dark, mixed or not?

You wouldn’t care tall or short. You wouldn’t care blonde or brunette. You wouldn’t care blue or green or brown…so, why light or dark?

Why black or white?

Especially when there are so MANY beautiful shades of swirl…

From my personal, non-fiction archives...

I would love to share this.  I had a good friend tell me today she reads my lil’ bloggy, and she laughed at my guilt over not posting (she blogged for a couple of years), but that I should NOT lose my vision or my honesty in posts.  She’s right.  I also realized that my commitment comes from how it feels to be able to WRITE THINGS OUT.  I should probably be seeing a counselor.  But, blogging works for me and keeps me happy.  Entertained. Important.  I am a History Teacher by training, and as a result I know there is something to writing it down and leaving it behind.  And so, what I really want to do is share a two part non-fiction post with you.  About me. And who I am, a little. Below, PART ONE…

A swirl girl was born over 32 years ago to a Latino, via a Polish woman.  That girl was so yellow, the medical field figured she must have been jaundice (although she wasn’t) because she didn’t match the pink tinted skin of her mama.  She was a mid-70′s swirl girl, a child, the product of a disco queen and her dancing king.

All MAY have gone well, had this swirl girl’s caramel AND vanilla stuck around…but, papa was a rollin’ stone…and hence, a swirl girl was raised, the product of her vanilla environment…

In early childhood, this swirl girl reminisces over being teased and called a “monkey,” not knowing quite why the neighbors might do that… She remembers, not so fondly, feeling out of place and not being sure as to why… She awkwardly recounts times when strangers asked her mother who she was babysitting and when friends asked her if she had been adopted.  Quite literally, this swirl girl was the “black sheep” of her family…

WHY???

For the majority of the first 17 years of her life, that swirl girl could not pinpoint what was wrong, why she was right to feel out of place, what could help make her feel whole… She had NO IDEA she was different.  To tell the truth, she had NO IDEA that she WASN’T white…

Okay, so despite being that swirl baby myself, as I have previously explained, I REALLY didn’t know that I was (I was raised white bread) and I definitely did not understand the ramifications of being swirly.  These are things that I would not learn until I was well into college, and I didn’t begin college until I was 17.  So, I went through stages that sounded something like this:

1.  Confident and secure
2.  Confused and unsure
3.  Down-trodden and depressed
4.  Weary  but wishful
5.  Confident and secure

Yup.  It was a long road.  At the beginning of that road I was a white girl.  And at the end I was a swirl girl.  I mean, let’s face it…learning (text-book learning) about my Chilena heritage was NOT by any means going to make me Chilena through and through.  I did not grow up with my Chileno padre, eating pollo arvejado (though he taught me to cook this later in life…another blog story…) or empanadas stuffed with pino (anotherthing I’ve since learned to make, from him…).  I ate pierogies and golabkis, and paczkis on fat tuesday.

But by the end of my road, I knew things…I knew about colonialism in the Americas.  I knew about the indigenous peoples of the Americas.  I knew about racism.  And I knew I liked black boys.

Weird?  I think not…follow along…

1.  I was not a white girl to white boys, no matter how white my insides are (culturally).
2.  I was not a latina to latinos, no matter how brown my outside is (I don’s speak spanish fluently).
3.  I am brown enough to be swirly, ethnic (read “exotic”) looking enough to be mixed, white enough on the inside and dark enough on the outside to be considered “bougie.”

Confused?

It just made sense.  I spent most of my high school years pining over no love interests because no white boys would bring me home to mom.  I wasn’t their taste.  I don’t resemble their mothers and their sisters.  When I got to college….suddenly boys were INTO me!  ME!!!  And they were mostly the black boys.  No problem.  My first crush in high school when away at a summer program at IMSA was a black boy.  My mom told me it could never work (insert racism here?).  So I dropped it.  But in college…no MOM, no PROB!

I dated all kinds of guys.  Don’t get me wrong.  Mexicano, Boliviano, Irish, European mutt, Half Japanese-half German…  but I ended up marrying and having my first two children with a light-skinned black man.

When I married, my mom asked me if I really wanted to do that.  I was confused…do what?  What did she mean?  She meant, put myself directly in the path of racism.  Yes.  I was sure.  I thought I was in love.  She thought I could pass for the rest of my life, if I wanted.  Marry a white boy, and I could possibly have pink skinned, fair haired, blue/green/hazel eyed children…

Oh well.

I was pregnant within months of that marriage.  When I was pregnant, my mom told me there was no going back.  I would now have a black child and no white man would want to ever raise a black child with me (WTF?  I was already divorced and moving “up” in my mom’s eyes, I think…).

Oh well.

Then I had a second child.  Both were boys (ouch, right, Mom?  Two black boys???).  Eventually, their dad and I separated and I wasn’t sure what I would encounter next…

Why I forget to post. No, REALLY...

Blame me.  I’m tired.

On Mondays, I get home and I’m thankful the week has started and maybe the ball will start rolling and before I notice it I’ll have a weekend again and another chance to maybe, possibly relax. It’s Monday and I forget to blog because it’s ONLY Monday and I still have time.

On Tuesdays, I can’t believe that I’m as tired as I am, because HEY, it WAS just Monday.  Shouldn’t some relaxation still be on reserve?  And it’s WAYYYYYYY too long until Friday night to collapse in a heap on my front door step. I forget to blog because I can’t believe it’s ONLY Tuesday.

On Wednesdays, it’s humpdays.  I’m happy the week is half over.  I forget to blog because of the delirium of 1/2 overness.

On Thursdays, I can’t believe it’s almost the end of the week.  Maybe I celebrate with a glass of wine or a bottle of beer.  No explanation needed, right? Asleep within an hour.

On Fridays, I’m SUPER geeked up.  It’s Friday!  Maybe it’s PAYDAY!  But even if it’s not (which it isn’t half the time), it’s the end of the work week!  WooHoooooo!  While I may have to wake up early to get baa-baas the next morn, I won’t have to get a slew of children ready for DayCare and I don’t have to make it to Fruit to punch in with The Man.  I forget to blog because I’m either paying bills before the money falls through the magical hole in my bank account or I’m making excuses about how I’ll be able to write sometime that weekend, cuz HEY, it’s the weekend and I should be able to put two spare moments back to back and write a little sumpin’ sumpin’, right? [insert NO here]

I don’t have to explain the weekend to you.  Especially to moms and dads.  A weekend off from work is not a weekend OFF.  It is a weekend ON, just somewhere else (namely, home).

But, hear me NOW!!!!

I am pledging to post every two days.

I swear.

As long as all of the children are healthy.  See. I’m not even thinking about if the house is clean.

Happy birthday, Mama's Boy!

Mama's Boy oh-so-many years ago

Six years ago today, July 18th, a second-time mother was driven to the hospital for her pre-scheduled c-section to deliver a little boy.

The doctor scheduled to do that c-section didn’t show up.  When he was called, he said it wasn’t on his planner (he planned it).  So, the “assist” doctor offered to step in and deliver.  Of course, I wouldn’t turn that offer down.  I was HUGE. Tipping the scales at 200.  Okay, well, I think I was 196 when I delivered. There was a good reason.  All I ever craved was sweets.  I wanted cake.  Cookies. Ice cream.  Tasty treats of any kind.  Things with sugar in them.  LOTS of sugar.  I truly do feel that that is the reason why Mama’s Boy is so, so very sugary sweet himself.  He is.

Back to the birth day.

The birth was scheduled (unlike his big brother) and so, my nails were done.  My hair was done.  And in my mind, my pregnancy was done.

Within an hour of entering the operation room, I exited with by big head baby boy.  My sister said he looked nothing like me, so I should find a way to leave my imprint on him.  Since the baby had a first name all along (Edward, after my grandpa that had just passed away that year) and no middle name all along, it seemed, by sister’s standards, the answer was obvious.  Edward’s middle name MUST be Angelo.  And so, Edward Angelo was welcomed to the world.

It became obvious that Eddie was a Mama’s Boy.  At first, because he was a baby.  And then, because he WAS the baby (of the family).  But, even as he welcomed TWO little brothers, he was still his Mama’s Boy.  Hence, he is my bloggy baby “Mama’s Boy.”

My sweet Mama's Boy @ just 2 1/2 years old!

Here i go on my iphone, take two

I already wrote this post once before. On my iPhone. Evidence that I am desperate to both blog and to better entertain myself on this road trip.

Because I have written these thoughts out once already, in eloquent words using thoughtfulness and wit, I am quite sure I am going to hate what comes out this time.

I am dedicating this two thumb typed up wordpress for iPhone app created bloggy goodness to this roadtrip. And, the main reason for this roadtrip.

No. I have not made a twelve hour trek from Chicago to Dumas, Arkansas for the fourth of July weekend because I heard they had a great fireworks display.

I am here because I am supporting dh and his family as they celebrate the life of the patriarch of the family, who passed away almost two years ago. They installed a headstone, and so combined that dedication with a family reunion.

Last time I was down here, was when aforementioned patriarch passed away. I was about 12 weeks pregnant with the twins. Dh and I were still trying to work out some, um, kinks(?) in our relationship. The trip south was probably not the magic serum that would heal our wrongs and make them right. It began with the fact that dh's head was not in a good "relationshippy" place. Our unexpected oops pregnancy quickly moved to an oh shit twin pregnancy. And the legendary hospitality of the south, at least for this city mouse, turned out to be more...Well...Ya see...

Okay. City mouse. In the country. I am not a city mouse that can easily transition to a country mouse role. And while I was pregnant when I went down south, I was clearly not barefoot. Which, I am not sure dh's cousins could appreciate. Being pregnant, and therefore unable to drink, which is the most common way to pass your time down in Dumas, Akansas, and being this was the first time I was meeting dh's large extended family, I was a wee little bit uncomfortable.

Add to that the fact that one of his male cousins actually TOLD me to go into the kitchen with the women folk, so that dh could crack open a few with the men...

And, while I am TOTALLY NOT opposed to dh crackin' open a few, I AM OPPOSED to being told what to do. As well as, when to do it. Especially when being told by another grown up that has no place to do so. And even less when I am uncomfortable in the first place.

It was bad. And I have a mouth on me. And with the double baby boy hormones shooting through me at the time, dh and I were at each other's throats. The trip almost ended in our separation.

So, here it goes. Family, take two. Of course, dh and I are in a completely different place in our relationship. We know each other better, react to each other better.

But, he's part country mouse. And I'm all city mouse.

I'm gonna try. Because my country mouse has taught me, nothing beats a failure like a try.

I'm home, and I survived, although mosquitoes got the best of me.

I’m back from my trip.  I have to admit, it wasn’t that bad.

Minus the fact that I was in a car for more than one whole day out of the last five days.  Which sucks big time when it’s 20% of all of your vacation time and you take very little vacation time for vacation purposes.

Anyway.  We had planned on being down in Dumas, Arkansas by mid afternoon on Friday, the 3rd of July.  Yeah, right.  We didn’t even come close.  We pulled into town around 11 pm.  Immediately, I was slightly relieved.  There goes one night of cousins hanging out that we would avoid.  Horrible, I know.  But I’m not gonna lie, I was nervous.  How would the family be?  Had anyone grown up in the last two years (least of all, dh?)? How did dh and my relationship improve over the last two years?

We went to sleep.  We would have to test the night of drinking on Saturday.

Saturday morning came quick enough.  We attempted to go get breakfast (at McD’s, no real “restaurants” in town) but missed it by about 5 minutes (major fail).  We had to arrive at the cemetery at 11 am.  Got there by 12pm.  No joke.  And we were not the last ones there.  And no one was ready anyway… Of course, someone in the family is a minister (isn’t someone in every family from the South? Kinda like someone in every Catholic family went into the convent or monastery?) and said a prayer.  And then my MIL (the oldest child in the family) said a few words.  Nothing crazy.  The crazy was said BEFORE the dedication.  To me.  By my MIL’s brother.  Dh’s uncle.  He said to me (and indirectly to dh) the following crazy things:

Crazy Uncle: Hey E, I see you brought your white wife!  You brought your white wife, huh???

{insert crickets here}

Crazy Uncle: Last time I saw you, you were big and fat!  Remember?  Remember the last time I saw you?

Me: Um, yes, I do.  And no, I wasn’t big and fat.

Crazy Uncle: Yes you was!  You was big and fat!

Me: Nope, I do remember and clearly I remember NOT being big and fat.  Mostly, because I was only 12 weeks pregnant.  I was about as big and fat as you are now.

{yep.  I really said that.  Most ’cause he deserved it after the crickets he heard from the first comment.}

Crazy Uncle: I’m not gonna talk to you no more.  You’re too smart for me.

Me:  You know what, it’s true.  If you’re not gonna talk to me ’cause I’m too smart, sounds like we’re never gonna talk.  Because I am smart.  And that’s not gonna stop.  But my guess is, you’re gonna keep on talking to me.  Whether I like it or not.

{Also said that.  Couldn’t help myself.}

Did I mention that Crazy Uncle was drunk?  Piss-drunk?

Ahhhhhhhh.  Dumas, Arkansas.

So, that ended and we went to a family picnic.

My nephew and our five sons...
I really just walked around the park with the twins in their stroller while everyone else kinda congregated and ate.

Some of the Hill family men...that's my Momma's Boy smilin'
Eventually I had a wonderful conversation with Cousin Ralo about the iPhone.

That's cousin Ralo wearing the tan cap. He's cool.
That was probably the highlight of the picnic for me. Except for some time I spent with a dragonfly.

This dragonfly and I had a great time talking...
Then we skipped from aunt to aunt’s house.  Can’t not go to one if you go to another’s and can’t not eat one’s food if you ate the other’s.  Sisters in constant competition.   And being that this was the first time for the family to meet the twins, we had to make the rounds.

It was the fourth of July.  The older boys wanted to do some fireworks, so we bought some on the side of the road.  We were going to go out (with the cousins…) while my MIL took the boys.  But, dh’s brother got in a fight (drunk) with a cousin, so plans were cancelled (once again).

Sunday was all about making those same rounds before we had to head out of town.  A lot of food and almost as much shit-talking at everyone’s homes.

The weekend went fairly well.  I went from newbie in the family to a significant other.  Mom, wife, niece, cousin, and fellow SMART ASS.  Really, I think letting my mouth kick in to overdrive got the family’s acceptance or buy-in.  And now I’m one of them.

Awwww... That's all.

But, I gotta admit, those DAMN MOSQUITOES got the best of me! (And practically ate my boys alive!)

I shoulda had my dragonfly buddy talk to the ‘squitoes.

Like

I'm nothing if not honest...

*****Warning. Today's post may offend your tastefulness for words, your parenting skills or just you. Period. No apologies. Just a warning.*****

So. Today demands a post. It's Thoughtful Thursday and it's been a week. I'm procrastinating preparing for a road trip to Dumas, Arkansas. Family reunion! WooHoo! I'm sure THAT will give me fodder for weeks of blogs to come.

But for today...

The other morning, I was getting ready for work. As is standard protocol, I turned on the tv to entertain the babies with pictures and noise while I attempted to do my hair. I normally flip to Disney , but on this day, I noticed it was on discovery and felt that that channel would probably be okay, educationally speaking, and I was running late...

The Discovery channel at this time was broadcasting an episode of births. So, babies crying definitely caught the attention of the toddlers. However, the women SCREAMING is what caught the attention of The Thinker and Mama's Boy. Before I noticed, I had four little boys crowded around my television in my bedroom, being educated on giving birth. In color. Up close.

There began a barrage of questions that were interesting.

Mama's Boy: Mama, what's wrong with that baby?

Me: He's having a hard time breathing, so they needed to help him with a C-PAP. That means continuous positive airway pressure. Your brother Chops needed that. Most babies that need that will be okay.

The Thinker: Ew, that baby is covered in junk! What is that?

Me: Well, before babies come into the world, they are living inside their mommy in a lot of liquid, and they need to be cleaned after they are born. But he'll be okay.

And then the question I wasn't anticipating. I was preparing for the cliche, "How are babies made?" or "Where do babies come from?" Nope. Not LUCKY enough to get either.

Instead, I got...

The Thinker: Mom, how do babies get OUT?

WOW. What do I say? Let me explain they I have never hid the fact that boys have a penis and girls have a vagina. I am not a "hoo-haa" or "ding-dong" or "wee-wee" kind of mom. Of course, I have paid the price when The Thinker, about 3 or 4, told everyone that girls have a 'jiy-na. Wow, was I red in the face. So, they have the vocabulary. So, I went dead medical on them.

Me: Well, you know that boys have a penis and girls have a vagina. The vagina is also the birth canal. Which means, it is how a baby comes out into the world.

*insert boys with open mouths and chins hanging to the floor HERE*

Me: Of course, you were all born be C-section. Which means that a doctor had to cut me open to take you out right near my belly. That's what {this scar} is from.

Mama's Boy: Why were we born that way?

Me: Well, it was safer for The Thinker to be born that way because he was breech. Babies' heads are supposed to be down because that's how they are born easily. But The Thinker wanted to hold his head close to my heart...

Mama's Boy: And my head was too big, right!

Me: Oh yeah. You couldn't get out any other way. Way too big. Way.

Well, we all had a great big laugh over that. And it eased my mind about my teaching philosophy with my children.

Like I said...I'm nothing if not honest...

And maybe it'll keep them from having babies before they're...thirty or forty...