My Child is Blessed

I went to church on Sunday.

I know big surprise. 

I felt like I hadn’t gone in ages, but with all the hub-bub of the fall over and a lucky day off of work, I took advantage of the opportunity to hear the good Lord’s word.

It is a small country church and because I’m black I knew my presence would be a slight distraction. I usually don’t use the latter as an excuse, but it’s perfectly fitting for the situation. I know this because the first time I made an appearance (about two months ago) three old bittities in the back two rows brought their heads together so fast I thought at least one of them would emerge with some sort of concussion.

Because I had Darren with me I knew it would be double distraction. It would help if he wouldn’t ham it up for the audience, but he never fails to put on a show.  As we walk in he’s all big eyes and squeals. Then he starts playing peek-a-boo with the people in the pew behind us.

Surprisingly, he toned it down once the service started. 

The service was not without one epic fail on my part though. The pastor had invited me to take communion with the rest of the congregation; I was super excited about this. Firstly, because I hadn’t had communion in months and secondly, Darren would be able accompany me while to took the sacraments. 

The fail comes from my seat selection. One word of  advice, if you are a visitor in a church and are to partake in church-going activities; pick a pew where you are not the first person to leave the pew. In other words, make sure you sit it the very back so you know what to do when it comes to communion.  

Being the one and only person (besides Darren) in my pew, I made an awkward walk down the aisle to line up for communion. Highly embarrassing. Faithful church goers understand what I mean.

There was an epic win of the service to make my seating fail less significant. The pastor blessed Darren when he went up with me for communion.

I LOVE this about old country churches. 

It is something I remember my pastor doing to me before I was confirmed and it something that I’ve wished my old church had done.  There is something poignant about the gesture. Maybe it is because of the bible story where Jesus rebukes the disciples for keeping the little children from him; saying if we all were to have faith like a child, that we would understand the Word of God more.  

What I do know is it makes me feel like my child has a place in the church. I know that he may screech at inappropriate times, but he is there for a reason; to subconsciously soak up the Word of God.

God’s blessing, though the pastor, is a keepsake that I hold on to to build my child’s faith for years and years to come.

Granted I had some wild visions of Darren protesting the gesture or trying to drool all over the pastor’s fingers, but he was calm (another epic win). He looked up at the pastor briefly, but overall unconcerned. 

Yeah, he may not have understood the significance of the gesture. But as a parent, it is reassuring to know that you child is blessed.

The Healing Powers of Kettle Corn

So yesterday ended pretty crappy and to be honest this morning didn’t start any better. 

I woke up tired; again. I am still waiting to have my imminent crying jag; any day now please. AND the Hubby’s phone went to voicemail all morning; cue in mini panic attack.  

So to put it on the light side, I was crabby and not wanting to deal with people. Period.

The good news is, I survived.

All because of Angie’s Kettle Corn. The perfect blend of salt and sweetness made my day end in perfection.

I am not a blogger who shamelessly promotes giveaways to boost my traffic. (I really should think about it though, it would make using Google’s AdSense worth it.) But I will promote healthy yummy delicious treats that turn awful days into heaven and turn the devout non-snacker in a guilt-free snack junkie.

I have to give all my credit to my co-worker Pammy. She brought her left over Halloween treats (Angie’s Carmel Kettle Corn) to work early this week. I about had a conniption. I hadn’t had Angie’s in ages.

So after my crappy morning this morning, I was in for a treat. As I meandered around the grocery picking up WIC items I spotted an Angie’s Kettle Corn display. I walked by the first time, telling myself I really didn’t need anything to eat.

Five seconds and two aisles later, I had rationalized my way to buying myself a treat.

I deserved a little something. I hadn’t really smiled all day. My eyeballs felt like they were rolling around on cotton balls, I paid bills, played gopher for my boss, and my husband was (and still is) in Vegas. I definitely had earned a treat.

My hand hesitated, when it saw the price. $2.28 per bag. Only for a second though, Angie’s Kettle Corn is definitely worth two dollars and twenty-eight cents. And if I had to rationalize it, I could say I was supporting a local business and eating healthy. I was going to talk myself into a bag either way.

I even gave the bag the privilege of sitting in the passenger seat all the way home. With my first sweet and salty bite, that bag of kettle corn had earned that privilege. It took my stress level from ten to zero in seconds.

It also helped that the hubby if finally turned his phone back on and we had a pretty good talk and that I was going to see Darren’s face in thirty minutes time.

But the fact that the laundry got folded straight out of the dryer? That was definitely the Angie’s.  Only magic can make me do something like that.

Romance novels be damned, I need to get me a stash of Angie’s Kettle Corn. That and a little more of that face below.

Tears, The Hangover, and Romance Novels

I am mentally exhausted.

One week I am childless and the next I am hubbyless. Both weeks I am a tearful basket case, over the smallest situations too; pure ridiculousness.

Do I smell a little undiagnosed postpartum depression going on? I think so.

Everyone, from doctors, to nurses, to friends, warned me about these moments.

“You’ll just be bawling for no reason.”

But once again I thought I had miraculously frog leaped this segment of child birthing. Negatory. Six months later it hits me, and makes me think I am going crazy, wondering why I am fighting tears at every turn. Fighting so much that after two days of the nonsense my eyes are tired. Drooping actually.

Luck has it that every time I sit down to get it out of my system, my tear ducts act like they’re dried out. The traitors.

If the hubby had known I was to this point he wouldn’t have gone to Vegas.

Yes, I said it. My hubby is in Vegas, and no I am not concerned. Lying. I am worried about his safety like crazy, but in general I am fine with it. I did have a mini heart attack when he told me that he and his buddies were watching The Hangover.

“Hey babe, howya doin?”

“Good, we are about to South Dakota.” Suddenly there is laughter. Lots of it.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, we’re just watching The Hangover.” He does his manly giggly thing.

“What?! Now why would you watch that on your way to Vegas?” I am exasperated.

“Why not?”

“Goodness, you have your medical card?”

“Yes babe.” It’s his turn to be exasperated.

What can I say? I have a very clear vision of a hospital scene from said movie floating around in m head.

He did have one condition to his going though. He wanted me to stay at my parents place.

So here I am.

Writing this blog on a scrap of paper because I tired turning on the computer and it decided to die on me, even though its plugged in, but its been that type of day.

After fishing my earring out of the toilet (don’t ask, it was clean water if you were wondering), ripping my contact in half (the other half was still in my eye) and searching fro the elusive nuk again, I am not surprised. 

No wonder I am exhausted. I definitely need some RNR.

Yep, that’s right. Romance Novel Relaxation.

Busted: I’m a Nuk Sucker

“You know that is for the baby right?”

The Schwan’s man throws this causal comment my way as I prepare to put Darren down for the night at my parents place.

I don’t even have to turn to know what he is talking about. Pretty sure Darren’s nuk is residing in my mouth at the moment. And yes, I am casually sucking it as I flip the lights off.

How embarrassing.

The sad thing is it happens all the time. I mean, I suck on Darren’s nuk all the time, but strangers usually don’t see this habit.

My mom butts in and asks; “Didn’t you have two nuks?”

Now I am forced to admit that the second nuk is MIA. Probably lost in the all the juggling that went on when we brought Darren back from Milwaukee.

My dad only laughs and adds fuel to the fire.

“So you lost Darren’s and won’t share yours? Jeez.”

Pretty sure I am completely beet red under this caramel completion. But I just roll with it because it’s not the first or last time anyone will catch me sucking on the nuk.

In my defense I have my reasons.

First off, Darren’s nuk is in constant disappearance mode.

It would help if he actually cared about his nuk, but he doesn’t. In his mind it is a toy, a teething ring, and occasionally, a sleep activator. Other than that he could care less where it is. Meaning, he can have it in his mouth one second and the next it’s nowhere to be found because he casually dropped it.

To combat this I have gotten into the habit of just putting it in my own mouth. Weird, I know, but for someone who daily has frequent bouts of mommy brain, this is the safest spot for it. I’ve tried putting it in my pocket, that doesn’t work because it gets lost in couches and under car seats and everyone knows that what’s in my couches is not very sanitary.

Second off, it is a great mind motivator (not to mention stress reliever). You wouldn't believe how many times I am chewing on his nuk and writing a blog post at the same time.

So don’t credit these words to pure genius; it’s all in the nuk sucking. You should try it sometime.

Why I Won’t Vote This Year

I bet the title has you on edge already.

But, yes, I am not voting this year. My choice.

Say what you will, I have my reasons.

Reason one: I am a working mother with limited time. I don’t (like I imagine most working mothers) have time to research sixty different government offices, local and national, all of which have two or three candidates each.

Knowing this, a few weeks ago I thought I would start listening to the radio to try to catch some of the campaign ads. Big Mistake. All I can remember is the metalic taste I got in my mouth because of the all the bashing that was going on. The sad thing is that I know there were a few ads that talked about a candidate’s platform, but they drowned in the blood bath.

I could take all these bashing ads and try to make an informed decision, but that doesn’t seem logical. But it makes me wonder how many ‘informed voters’ do just this. And we wonder why we can’t stand the people who run our government.

Reason Two: I don’t align myself with any political party. I am a political mutt. So sue me. But please tell my when you’ve voted for a candidate that represented you values to the very T. I have never found that, knowing this, I started thinking about what I really wanted from my government.

I want them to solve our nation’s problems regardless of party lines. The more I think about it the more I’ve realized that politics is all about the power struggle (duh) and not about the solving the nation’s problems (double duh).  

Then I realized what I wanted would probably never happen. Never.

So why talk politics on a mommy blog? Because I am a mom, and every decision I make affects my family. So while their still trying to decide who should have more power in the Senate or the House of Representatives, I am going keep trying to raise my ethnic minded, but down to earth family. Again Political Correctness not necessary.

That’s why I am not voting.

(Let me know how you feel by leaving comment below.)

Sad Puppy

“I know what your blog should be today,” The hubby said this to me two days ago.

I turned from the door and gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“Sad Puppy.”

I still was confused.

“Babe, that is the fifth time you’ve checked the door in a half an hour.”

I gave him a shamefaced smile. It was the truth.  I had been waiting for my mom to come so we could begin our road trip. Since about ten minutes after I got home from work, I had been ready to go. That was at twelve-fifteenish. She was supposed to be at our house at one. It was one-twenty-four.

Who’s the late one now Mommy? (just kidding.)

My eagerness is fueled by my need to be close to my son. I hadn’t seen him since Sunday before I went to work. Five days and one mental breakdown later, I was practically itching with withdrawal. As the hubby put it I was a “mental case.” In retrospect I was a walking mental case. Tears were always moments away, irritation level extremely high, and restlessness even higher. 

The fact that he called me a ‘sad puppy’ is a major understatement for what I had become.

So why did I put myself though sending Darren six hours away to spend time with the hubby’s family?

At first I wasn’t sure. But after fielding a half million ‘How will you do it?” questions from co-works, family and friends, and a million “I could never do it,” and one “Enjoy it while you can,” (Cindalicous) statements, I know why.

Growing up, I was never given the chance to really get to know my adopted father’s family. As a result, I barely know them and rarely see them. Now that Darren is back home with us and hearing how much fun he had with his cousins and aunts and uncles, it makes me regret not knowing them better.

When the topic of Darren going to visit for awhile (without mommy or daddy along) came up, I was completely against it. I actually did what I could to put it off for a while. It’s not that I didn’t want him to go see family, but I didn’t know how I would cope without my little man. The more the hubby talked to me about it, it became very evident that the visiting would happen. I agreed it should happen.

 That doesn’t mean I had to like it.

It means that family is a high priority for me. 

It has been, and always will be. 

It means that if I have to send my son six hours away for a week, it will happen. But be prepared for me to be a basket case. Actually, be prepared to deal with the emotional, hormonal, irrational lost woman in your presence. AKA: a mother. 

The Hubby felt the same lost feelings, but he was manlier about it.

“I miss my Lingle,” (His pet name for Darren, don’t ask). That’s all I heard from him, that and random bursts of laughter as he was reminded about some cute thing his little man would do.

But he made the same decision as me. 

It means family is a high priority for him.

It has been, and always will be.

“So how, often do you think you’d be able to let Darren go visit?” This comes from the hubby tonight.

“Babe, I just got him back, I am not even thinking about the next time he’s going.” 

He just laughs. I think he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to deal with me being a mental case anymore.

(Leave a comment and let me know what you would do in this situation. Thanks for reading!)

The Dirty Laundry Fetish

The laundry and I are holding an uneasy truce. All the clean clothes are in three baskets piled in the bedroom, while all the dirty clothes occupy the floor in front of the laundry machine. The dryer is rumbling and the washer is waiting patiently to feed it its fifth load of laundry.

We have come to an impasse because I promised to keep up with laundry if the laundry promised to stop enticing the hubby. I have very low hopes in the laundry, because the hubby has a dirty laundry fetish and can be very persuasive.

You don’t believe me.

You should. Ever since I’ve known the hubby he has been a dirty clothes diver. It never matters if he knows (because I’ve told him) that certain baskets are dirty clothes. He gets some perverted pleasure in digging through piles of laundry for a semi clean shirt he can wear inside out.  I am glad to report that this fetish extends to clean clothes too.

But clean laundry is also off limits. Before you think I am abusing him, there is a reason. This man will unfold a whole basket of white t-shirts just to find the ‘whitest’ one. The kicker is that he is going to wear it as an undershirt. My mom says the simple solution is to hang all of them up. I just issue an ultimatum.

“Baby, all clothes either in front of the washer or in a basket are off limit, or else. Do you understand me?”

“Now, why do these special rules have to be made?” He says this with a sly look on his face.

He knows why.

He is going to convince the laundry to commit the biggest sin; to cheat on me.

Yeah, I know, the jerk.

But the laundry and I went to couples therapy and we sorted things out.  It told me that I never paid enough attention to it. I complained that the laundry was a home wrecker, always looking to split us up by tempting the hubby and encouraging his dirty fetish. That’s why we have both made promises to change and give the other more attention.

It is also the reason we have a date tonight.