True Romance

This is a repost, because I spent an hour trying to write a post about how I think Valentine's Day is ridiculous and I hated everything I wrote. So surprise! You get the story of how I started calling Hot Guy my boyfriend. Happy Valentine's Day. 

When Hot Guy and I first began dating, we were in denial. Neither one of us wanted a serious relationship and we were definitely not looking to fall in love. When someone would refer to him as my boyfriend, I would loudly protest that we were JUST DATING and that he was NOT my boyfriend.

In fact, I was relieved when he would be unable to attend my friend Mimi's wedding with me. I was a bridesmaid, knew 3/4 of the guest list and was looking forward to dancing with her young, hot co-workers. Hot Guy was attending a huge paintball tournament in Oklahoma that weekend. I went to the wedding and had a fantastic time.

In fact, I had such a fantastic time that when my friend Todd dropped his champagne glass, I quickly hopped up to find a server to clean it up. But after having had so much fantastic champagne myself, I forgot that I wasn't wearing any shoes. (I'd taken off my killer heels) I sliced my foot open on a piece of glass. But because I was having such a good time, I just wrapped it in a towel and kept dancing.

I noticed that it was still bleeding when I went home that night, but I just wrapped it in gauze and passed out went to sleep.

When I woke up with a killer headache the next morning, I noticed that it was still bleeding. And that I had trailed blood up my carpeted stairs. I decided to hit the ER. They cleaned out all the glass and stitched my foot up - while they were laughing at me. The doctor tried to lecture me about cut care, but he was laughing too hard.

Anyway, I went home and set myself up on the porch. I got myself a Diet Pepsi, a new ashtray (yeah, yeah, I know), a pile of books and propped my foot up. I couldn't face cleaning the trail of blood through my house. Hot Guy came over that night, after a long day of paintball and driving.

He got me food. He scrubbed the blood out of my carpet. He re-bandaged my foot.

And I stopped protesting when people called him my boyfriend.

Why Isn't There A Special Education Track for Parents?

This is a repost. Because I'm sick. And it's still true.

I cannot cut Ironflower's peanut butter and jelly sandwich properly. No matter what knife I use, no matter where I place the sandwich, no matter how thinly I spread the jelly, the jelly always leaks out by the time I'm done cutting it into totally unequal triangles. Often said triangles also have mangled edges.

When I ask my children what they want for dinner, they usually say McDonald's.

I have yelled the words "Shut up!" more than once. Once a day, I mean.

I am convinced that there is a bedtime routine that will cause my children to go bed peacefully and remain like that all night. I have tweaked the routine so many times I can't even remember what it was at this time last year.

I can't sew. Or cook more than a few things like hot dogs. Or iron. Or remember to actually bring my coupons to the store. And I loathe cleaning.

I don't know how to dress myself. The demands of this whole mom thing would seem to make yoga pants and t-shirts a sensible uniform, but I get depressed when that's all I ever wear. But I also get depressed when all of my cute clothes get stains on them.

I don't really like playing.

It takes me forever to strap and unstrap kids from the minivan. And sometimes they have to remind me to strap them in at all.

I am CLEARLY not keeping up with the rest of the class around here.

Was there a class I missed? Was modern parenthood the real topic of that abnormal psychology class I never went to? Do I simply need some remedial tutoring? WHY did I spend all those hours lugging around a weighted Cabbage Patch doll senior year of high school, if not to help my future parenting skills? Of course, I spent a lot more hours in Trigonometry . . . .which I have never, ever, ever used once since.

Or is the problem deeper? Do I have a processing disorder? A delay in mothering skills? And if so, where the heck is my Individual Education Plan? (Should that be Parenting Education Plan?) Why don't I have an aide? How come I never get pulled out of class to work in a quieter room with fewer distractions?