In Good Company

When I was about 8, I was in my brother's room playing with his toys (like so many other evenings, his GI Joes and Army Men were infinitely cooler when they hung out with my Barbies). My mom came into the room asking weird questions about dinner and softball practice and can we give her so-and-so's phone number so she knew what the regulations were for Cameron's Cub Scouts derby racecar. It was then that I decided to tune it all out, and I distinctly remember thinking, Okay Mom, Mr. GI is about to ask Skipper on a date, let's get moving.

This is easily one of the biggest regrets of my childhood conversations (another is that I once told my brother I hated him, and then I felt bad and apologized for 2 hours; my fits of anger never last long). Immediately after deciding to ignore her, she cried and asked if we thought she was a bad mother. I actually laughed because I was certain there was NO way she was actually being serious.

But she was.

 

Now, let me tell you something about my mother. She has an infectious laugh and the biggest heart I've ever witnessed on the face of this planet. She was also a really, really outstanding parent. We lived about 20 miles outside of the town where we actually went to school, and on any given evening, her schedule looked like this:

5:30 Pick up kids from daycare because she worked a full time job and my dad didn't live at home
5:30-6:30 Dinner and homework at McDonalds because we didn't have time to drive the 30 minutes home and back. Depending on the season, Cameron's football practice conincided with this hour, so my mom and I ate in the car by ourselves
6:30-7:30 Courtney's softball practice and/or cheerleading practice and/or campfire meetings (and sometimes all 3)
6:30-8 Cameron's Cub Scout meetings or baseball practice.
30 minute drive home.
And then bathe both children, pick out their clothes for tomorrow, read their bedtime stories, organize their backpacks, talk to them about their day, learn every detail about every friend in every class, sew costumes for school plays, help put together tri-board science projects, clean the house (oh my god, how was our house so clean?!) and somehow find time to take care of our three dogs, our two cats, a fresh-water fish tank, and then shower and take care of herself.

Wait. And she's asking me if she's a bad mother?!?!

Seriously guys, my mom is cray. She is a fabulous mother and I have never seen one better.

But I do think I finally understand why she cried and asked that crazy question in the first place. Being a step-whatsit is one of the few things in my life I feel pure passion for (aside from my family, my dog and my smokin' hot boyfriend). I absolutely love the cheer practice, the laundry piles, the sight of their sparkling clean rooms [even if I have to clean them myself], the way Noah smells after he's had a bath, every second of Peyton being clingy and snuggly, and then trying to learn details about their day without sounding like I'm doing some kind of prison-camp interrogation. Still, at the end of some days I find myself screaming, "Good lord! There's no way I'm doing this right!!!!" followed by "I will never be as amazing to them as my mom was to me because I haven't been with them from the start..."

 

After looking back on that terrifying conversation with my mom, I finally realized I don't need to have all the answers. I don't need to know every detail about their past. I don't always need to have it all together. What parent does, be it biological, step, or adoptive? None of us are going to know what we're doing every. single. day. We're not always going to know that we're doing it right - or that someone else could've done it better. Chris always says to me, "Just love them as best as you can. Be there for them. And when they're old enough to understand and realize it, they'll know you were their parent all along."  Hold just a moment while my heart melts. He really is the best partner I've ever had in my life. We make a great team, and I love every second of it.

 

I wouldn't know the first thing about being a parent or a partner if it weren't for my amazing mother. Knowing that she had the same, "Am I doing this right??" moments that I have.... Well, that makes me feel like I just might be.

 

Oncology, Party of (K) 9.

I never thought I'd be googling reviews for Veterinary Oncologists. But here I am, frantically searching for any kind of inkling for one who is both magical and inexpensive. So far, my vet has referred me to two: one is less expensive, but can't see my furbaby for another 10 days; the other is comparable in price, but has less than stellar reviews regarding her personality. Neither of these options seem magical.

For those that know me, you very well know that pre-smokin' hot boyfriend and pre-sorta-step-kids, there was really only one love in my life: an 8 pound Chihuahua Beagle mix named Cooper. I have known for a long time that days like this are possible, but I thought I made a deal with Jesus so that my little guy would never leave me.

[My goodness. How cute is he?]

 

 

A couple of weeks ago, Cooper (who has never weighed more than 8.5 pounds soaking wet) started gaining weight in his belly. Over a week's time, he swelled up like he'd just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner. I took him to see my dad, who was an animal husbandry major at OSU. No, he's not a vet. But he knows enough about pigs and cattle that I thought he would at least give me a decent, free guess as to whether I should be worried. We decided the little turkey was just eating too much people food. [Side note: totally guilty. He usually gets scraps from every meal I eat in front of him.]

 

3 days later, his legs were so swollen he couldn't walk straight. I gave him a warm bath thinking it might help with any soreness, and felt some kind of mass in his belly.

 

Total. Meltdown.

 

He got into his vet first thing in the morning (Tulsans, please go see Dr. Robards at Southern Hills Vet Hospital. He is amazing, and his staff will call you multiple times a day to calm your fears and check on you). Dr. Robards drained a full liter of fluid from his tiny little body, and within an hour he was a full two pounds lighter. Rejoice! Yay! Hallelujah!

 

Not so fast. His fluid was building up because he has crystallized particles throughout his body, and his immune system was trying to flush them out. Unfortunately, he has an immune disorder; instead of flushing out the particles, he leaked fluids through his capillaries.

 

[On a side note, we discovered through X-Rays that his previous GARBAGE OF A HUMAN BEING owner broke several of his ribs, let them heal back without medical care, and then kicked him to the streets. I should send you a thank you card, because you sent my little boy right into my arms. I should also punch you in the dome because Coop now has shards of bone floating around in his ribcage. You're a real winner!]

 

Anyway... an ungodly amount of money later, we got Cooper on antibiotics, steroids, and a diuretic. These are supposed to increase his appetite and thirst, flush those nasty little crystallized particles out of his teeny tiny system, and cure what ails him. However, he is now dehydrated, unable to jump onto the couch without falling, and refuses to play. He just wants to be in my lap on the floor and snuggle. I told myself, "It's okay! His body is just tired from healing itself!!"

 

And then I remind myself that his little body isn't so great at doing that. Today when the vet tech called me for an update on my baby. She and Dr. Robards immediately referred me to a Veterinary Oncologist. Wait. A what?? Yes. A Veterinary Oncologist. We are now worried that my little Coop-a-Loop has cancer. So.... we have an appointment in 10 days to get his sweet little senior-citizen puppy tummy an ultra sound.

 

Cancer is scary. There's no doubt about that. But my little guy is tough. When the wind blows just right, his ears raise up so that he looks like a little tri-colored Yoda. He's had a shattered rib cage and an ID number tattooed on his belly and he once got in a fight with a yellow lab and won. He might as well be the leader of a small prison gang.

 

He's strong. He's going to be okay. I'm making the right decision by getting him looked at. I have every reason to hope that he will live many more years of his sweet little life, peeing on my patio and sniffing eyelashes and growling at small children.

 

 

 

 

 



slightly humorous girl?

I just wanted to stop by quickly and let everyone know that I showed my last post "Funny Girl" to the best friend.

Best friend's reaction:

"OMG I'M READING YOUR BLOG AND LAUGHING SO HARD I'M CRYING. You are HILARIOUS. Also -- you inspired me to blog."

I win! Hands down! Funniest girl alive award goes to me! I excitedly tell boyfriend about my success.

Boyfriend's reaction:

 

 

Hmph. Okay. Still not funny. But I'll get there.

 

Also, I have no idea who the person in that picture is, but I'm pretty sure he's Christopher's long lost twin. With a receding hair line. And bigger ears. And less style.

 

Okay, equal style.

 

 



funny girl

Today, we get a fun little factoid feature a la Courtney Nicole.

Recently, while reading other blogs (http://notkathy.blogspot.com/ and http://recentlyroached.blogspot.com/), I thought to myself, GOOD LORD IN HEAVEN. These women are funny! And not just lady-funny, but actually funny in a sorta-vulgar-no-boundaries-TMI kind of way! And they still love Jesus!

This sent me on a very strange, very unnecessary inner-self rampage. Why am I not funny? How come they get to be moms and employees and crafty-crafters and DIYers and still have sex with their husbands AND still be funny?! This isn't fair!! I want to be funny, too!!

Spoiler alert: Sometimes I'm whiny, but rarely am I funny on purpose. I just can't do it all.

Take, for instance, two of my favorite people in the world: the bestie and the boyfriend. Bestie thinks I'm funny all. the. time. No really. I'm pretty sure she'd carry me around in her pocket and let me narrate her life, if I was both pocket-sized and carrying the lungs of James Earl Jones. Alas, I have neither of those things.

We've known each other since we were 4, and often like to joke that we were separated at birth. We also secretly believe it, since I once had a student tell me that I'm left handed because I ate my embryonic twin while I was still in the womb.... Anyway. When great things happen to the best friend, I'm all, "Yay! Good for you! You are so beautiful! Life is rainbows!!!" accompanied by a million emoticons and a snapchat of my smiling face. She loves it, I'm sure. But when she has a bad day, I'm the first one to recant whatever crazy thing happened in my life (usually starting with the sentence, "so this shit just happened...."), or a very fitting picture for whatever less-than-appealing situation she has just been in. Usually something along these lines:

Stop judging. We like owls and they make us happy. Moral of the story is that she thinks I'm a hoot. (See what I did there?) When I someday kick the bucket or escape from the nursing home or find myself in a 100+ year-old somewhat-vegetative state of dementia, she is going to look back fondly on us as the funniest ladies aliiiiiive. It's the general foundation of our friendship. It cannot be helped. Perception is reality (and all that stuff), so it doesn't matter if we are the only two people who think we're funny.

 

Which may very well be the case.

 

Her husband and Chris have been friends for years. In fact, while I was off galavanting with her through the hallways of Pre-K, her future husband and my future boyfriend were probably together setting off firecrackers in mailboxes or something.

We all go way back, or whatever the kids call it these days. I even circled boyfriend's "Have a good summer... Stay Cool..." message in my yearbook in 6th grade, and then covered it in ever-so-classy hearts. He had absolutely no idea who I was back then. He was a sexy quarterback and I was the secretary of student council. But that's right folks - I batted my eyelashes, flipped my hair, and *boom* fifteen years later, he is MINE. Dorks unite. There is hope.
 

So why, after all the years of crazy (and I mean LOONEY TOON) exes and horrible first dates and even worse second dates, did best friend and her husband never freaking introduce us?!

The most logical theory: best friend thinks I'm funny. Boyfriend does not.

If you were to ask dear, sweet boyfriend if I am funny, he would probably laugh, give you the crazy eyes, and do a swift, sassy-lady "oh heeeeeeeeyll nah" hand gesture. Boyfriend.does.NOT.think.I.am.funny. (It's okay, pick your jaws up off the floor.) I'm not sure that I've ever made even one joke that he has genuinely laughed at. I usually get a cute, "d'awwww" face, followed by a sweet pat on the head. I feel like Cindy Lou Who when the Grinch sends her off to bed with her cup.

What's even better: when I accidentally say or do something that isn't even meant to be funny, he will sprint across the room at lightning speeds to high five me because he thinks I've finally moved up to what he calls a "Level II" comedic line.

I haven't.

But I got to thinking. No matter how funny I think other bloggers are (and trust me, I get the giggle fits), boyfriend makes me feel certain that their husbands probably do not think they are funny. They probably find blogging weird. And they probably give sympathy laughs at their wive's jokes because they know if they don't, they will have to fake an apology after three awkward days of icy silent treatment. Boyfriend is super "lucky" because I don't believe in the wasp-y silent treatment. (Yes, I made up the word waspy.) I let all that garbage out. Please refer to the earlier "WHY CAN'T I JUST BE FUNNY?!" rant.

It's okay though, because at the end of the day, boyfriend hugs me, tells me he loves me, and says "You are funny. Thanks for being my best friend." Even if he's lying through his teeth, he still wins.

I'm also fairly certain that just before he wifes me up, he will send best friend a thank you letter for NOT introducing us when we were young. God intervened when the time was right.

And I imagine she will probably respond with something along the lines of:

PS. Please trust that I am in the midst of a million step-adventures.  Even as I type this, one is sick, one is on a rebellious-10-year-old-parent-enforced house arrest, and both have taken to very literal slaps to the face when they get mad at each other. *beware the step-meltdown* I'll save that blog for a day that both my funny-girl ego and blood pressure are up to the challenge.

The Trust Language

Respect is a funny thing. We often don't realize how much we crave it until we aren't getting any. In the same way, we I often don't realize I'm being disrespectful until after the words have left my lips or the actions have been completed.

Have you ever read The Five Love Languages? If not, stop reading this. Go buy it now. Read it cover to cover.

I am Words of Affirmation, while Chris is a pretty equal combination of Acts of Service and Quality Time.  More than anything, I need Chris to tell me that he loves me - and he does, every single day. Even when he is angry with me, he makes sure to tell me that he still loves me no matter what.
He needs, on the other hand, for me to show him through acts and time. Lately, this means doing the dishes whenever I can help, picking up P from cheer practice, and helping him clean up the house. His bilingual love language is tricky for me, though - because I try to find ways to do these services while still ending my day with one-on-one time with him after the kids go to bed. I've recently failed at the latter. I spend so much time making sure I bond with the kiddos and help around the house, I neglect his need for quality time. Essentially, I need to do a better job at being a good parent and a good girlfriend. The two things are related, but require very different attention. The daddy in him needs me to speak in Acts of Service, but the man in him needs me to speak in Quality Time.

Why is this important? Because even though he and I are fantastic at speaking the other person's language to them for the purpose of showing love, I still tend to show respect in my own love language, rather than his...

Instead of showing him that I respect him through acts of service, I tend to verbally express my respect. For example... when I made the colossal mistake of invading the ever-sacred privacy of his phone (ladies: big no-no!!), I decided that telling him about it was the best way to show respect. In my mind, I was sure that being honest was the right thing to do - one respectful action cancels out a disrespectful action right? Wrong. Even our 4 year old knows that. And since Chris is an acts-of-service-kinda-guy, he would have preferred me to show respect by not looking in the phone in the first place.
[Side note: In hindsight, I agree. I trust him completely and there is nothing in his phone or Internet history or school record or grocery list or any other crazy thing that my nosey little eyes need to be a part of!]

I am now working my way through learning to respect in different languages - especially if it saves us an argument and the back-pedaling-hogwash of asking for an apology rather than permission. Our different languages were very apparent - and at the same time, completely irrelevant - to me after the apologies had been shared and I sent him this cutesy-ooey-gooey picture:

His response:

"love is trust."

 

Brain, I beg you: Please etch this in stone somewhere and repeat it daily. Perhaps love languages don't always take precedent. Maybe respect doesn't necessarily have a language. Or maybe Chris said something even truer than true - if love is trust, then the languages we speak to each other are trust languages. The only reason you even learn the other person's language in the first place is because you love them enough to be faithful, respect them enough to make an effort, and because you trust that they will do the same. Your love language is the very core of your trust in the other person.

 

 

Love is trust.

love is trust.

l o v e. is .t r u s t

 

What in the blue blazes is a Boohbah?

“How hard is it to keep your cool?”
Pretty hard sometimes. I find that small children have given me a snapping threshold that would make Gordon Ramsay say “Whoa, cool it lady.” Inanimate objects seem to be the main focus of my wrath because they won’t be taken away from me if I really start spitting cherries (best. phrase. ever.) Instead, I find myself hulking the tabs off the effing nappy because they won’t peel up, drop kicking a basket of socks across the room because I can’t find a pair that matches or swearing that if I ever find the murther furking jackhole that put 14 previews on every kid DVD, I will chant “Kali Ma” as I plunge my bare fist into their chest and pull out their still-beating heart. Breeeeeeeathe.

“I would never let my kids become my whole life.”
I used to go over to my “previously cool” friend’s place and think how sad it was that her house was overrun with sippy cups, Polly Pocket shoes and Dora the Explorer crap. Now I lay in my hippy bed reading Goodnight Moon until my right eye twitches and they fall asleep. Then I look at their perfect, little faces and wonder how I ever lived without them.

 

--Excerpt from "When I Have Kids, I Will Never..." by Amy Morrison

http://www.ivillage.com.au/when-i-have-kids-i-will-never/

 

 

Okay. I had to include these excerpts for two reasons.

1. N has a bookcase built in to his bed; there are loads of beautiful little boy books for beautiful sweet little boys, and I love getting to relive my childhood while I read him those stories. But for whatever reason, after we finish Goldilocks or Jungle Junction or Dr. Seuss, he insists that I read him the Boobah book. I have no idea what a Boobah is or why they are made to be so absolutely horrifying, but I read N the Boobah book every single night before bed. Every. Single. Night. Apparently they have squeaky voices, and I freaking refuse politely object to making them. The Cat in the Hat, the three bears, Toadhog in the Jungle - they all get fun voices. But the Boobahs and the loony-toon who created them can bite me.
                      
                [Seriously... What IS this? The longer you look, the scarier it gets.]
 
2. More importantly, even as I typed that, I knew it was a lie - the Boohbahs occasionally get a fun voice because N loves it and I suddenly become some kind of crazy bedtime guru that cures all fears of the dark and "I want another drink of water!" meltdowns. Ever since I started the Boohbah book before bed, it's been an amazing bonding experience, I love him a little more each night, and he finds it hilarious that he gets the "snug as a bug in a rug" chime from me after every story time.

 

Fun bonus: by reading the Boohbah garbage and avoiding the Kali Ma-jackhole-heart-plunge-I-don't-wanna-go-to-sleep disaster, I give Daddy and me an extra hour of "adult time." Mind you, I use the term loosely. Last night after the kids went to sleep, we watched Far and Away, practiced our Irish accents, and viciously tickled each other for twenty minutes. 

 

The Boohbahs are getting to us.

 



Making Memories

I knew that dating a man with kids would change nearly every aspect of my life. But I had no idea it would change my entire support system.

Of course, my family and I are as close as ever. My wonderful mother, aunts, and stepmom have all taken interest in my new role as a step-whatsit. They offer calming advice, personal experience, and an unending supply of "It's okay, this is normal" when I admit that I have no idea what I'm doing. My mom, in particular, has jumped right in with me, assuring me that not only am I a positive influence in their lives, but also affirming my decision to be their other mom.

[Just a few of my amazing family members.]

A few years ago, one of my best friends began having children. The almost 2- and 4-year-olds now lovingly call me Aunt Corky, and I get to spend a lot of quality time with them (especially since N is so close in age). However, it wasn't always so easy to spend time together. Not long after they were born, their mom hinted that, once you become a mom, your support system changes. It is suddenly easier to spend your free time with other parents, rather than non-parents. I didn't understand this - and was slightly offended by it - until now.

I used to go out - a lot. It was rarely wild and crazy, but it was still out on the town, dressing up, new friends, and a girl's night out every weekend. Since Chris and I met about 10 months ago, I can count on one hand the number of times I've gone out. And even fewer were those instances as fun as they used to be. Once I became a step-whatsit, it suddenly became wildly uncomfortable for me to be galavanting around town, Even though I still loved - and needed! - time with my girlfriends, it was suddenly more important for me to be setting a good example for our children. This meant I was suddenly wondering if my girlfriends would be interested in a night in watching animated movies and sipping Capri Sun, rather than dressing to the nines and showing off our stems to people we didn't know.

While I'm trying to help save up for back-to-school shopping and a $500 Youth Cheerleading extravaganza, my other girlfriends are having dinner dates, weekend vacations out of state, attending concerts, and racking up bar tabs that I haven't seen in almost a year. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THIS. Admittedly, I even sometimes envy their ability to do so. My only point is that I suddenly realize what Lindsay hinted at nearly 5 years ago. Being a parent changes your support system. Remaining friends with non-parents once you become a parent takes effort. It takes time. And it takes priority juggling. Being a step-parent adds a little extra "oomph" to the scenario, especially when friends don't understand why I can't just spend a night away from the kids that "aren't really mine."

To that, I say this: I could.

But if I'd gone out on Thirsty Thursday, I would have missed P getting her very first cheer uniform at practice, and celebrating with a dance party in the garage with her dad. If I'd gone to a concert on Saturday, I would have missed N asking his daddy, "When will you get married? Because if you got married, then we'd all have a mom around all the time, and Courtney wouldn't have to go home at night because she'd already BE home. So when can we do that?"

[P's first cheer camp]

 

Friendships are not static. They change, the dynamics change, the logistics change, the circumstances change. I still love my girlfriends just as much as I always have. I miss them more and more each day, and there are days when I JUST want to sit and have a margarita with them and feel a little bit of nostalgic "normalcy." But I now understand why my parent-friends seemed to disappear for awhile when they became parents. Your heart is suddenly SO filled with love, you just don't know how to carry it around town without spilling ooey gooey feelings all over everyone.

 [My flower from N: "This will be better than any present Daddy gives you, I promise!"]

 



To be perfectly honest, with the kids heading toward pre-k and 5th grade (and puberty and slumber parties and escalated temper tantrums and Ew, don't hug me, my friends are looking!), I want to hang on to this overflowing ooey-gooey--ness for as long as my hands can stay on them.
So friends, please please excuse my absences. I'm busy making memories.