Wednesday, October 10, 2012

I'm stumped

My daughter believes that our house is haunted.

By a guy wearing purple pants with a mean face.

The details are pretty new, but ever since we moved in here she has had something like this to say. Actually all the kids at one point or another have mentioned something weird. Jackson has come downstairs in the middle of the night because he felt a burning hot hand on him and then went icy cold all over. Nathaniel has woken up saying he heard a scream. And now Avery with her poorly dressed dude... for two nights in a row now.

Apparently, he stands by the bathroom door on the landing upstairs. When I asked her how she got downstairs to tell me about it (because he would have been directly blocking the stairs) she said "He fades."


And now I don't know what to do about this. It's not like I can go "Ohmygod!! I know, right?" and reveal my belief in ghosts or the fact that I think there is something totally weird about this house too. And at the same time I can't say "Oh shut up. Ghosts are totally fake. Also, there is not a monster under your bed. Probably." That would just make her feel dismissed and afraid of things under her bed.

 I tried "Well, honey, he probably looks angry because he is wearing purple pants and purple pants are stupid." She was not amused. And then Jackson got upset because he really wants purple jeans from Old Navy and I had just called them (and by proxy, him) stupid. She was also not amused by "He probably is near the bathroom because he has to poop and you keep LOOKING at him so he feels embarrassed."

So I ended up telling her this morning simply that I heard her. That I believe she believes she sees the purple pants ghost. It seemed like a really good strategy at 8 a.m. when I was trying to get breakfast made and kids showered and dressed and lunches made. It seemed to calm her down a little. So I was a little surprised when she came running in to me as she was eating breakfast to tell me she saw the ghost standing right behind her in the kitchen. And then when she called me when she was in the shower to tell me she heard ghostly laughing. And then when she called me AGAIN from upstairs brushing her teeth, saying the guy was standing in the corner of the bathroom.

I have no idea what the hell to tell this child.

THIS is what parenting books should be about. NO parent really needs the parenting books that are all "Feed your kids vegetables!!" and "High fevers are bad!!" and "Car seats are important!!" Those books are bullshit. They don't tell you anything you really need to know. I mean, rodents can figure out to feed their babies, but no Guinea Pig mom has ever had to answer the Specter Question.

Parenting authors (I'm looking at you William Sears and Dr. Spock and whoever wrote that What to Expect Book) you have let us down. Shame on you.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Sometimes typos are the answer

I just sent an email, to a woman I have never met, with the subject line "Parent Rep Shits".

Awwww...... s-h-i-R-t-s dammit. SHIRTS.

And yep...this is how I am coming back from a bajillion month disappearance. Talking about typos.'ve ya been?

This feels like one of those times you run into an ex-whatever and it's all awkward and everyone tries to be all "everything has been AWESOME" and then maybe you hang out once in that we-should-grab-coffee kind of way and then inevitably one or the other of you start to think that maybe the other person likes you again but no one wants to be the first to say it. (worst sentence ever written)
So here goes......

I like you guys.

And this is what happened.

So a few months ago I posted about how I was all teeming with anxiety and how things get really really overwhelming sometimes. That is something that has always been true for me. I get all jittery. Like my insides don't fit. Like everyone is staring at me and making fun of my shoes. Like I am walking around with a booger hanging out of my nose.

But after that post I got all stern with myself and was all "You need to start taking care of yourself. You should go to the DOCTOR!" So I made an appointment with a gynecologist. Of course. Because when your head is messed up you definitely should go to a vagina doctor. Plus I figured that this was probably all due to menopause. (at the age of 37 and for issues I have had for my whole life- makes total sense) So I made the appointment with a gynecologist.

A new one. (Brilliant. But I had no choice because we moved to Cincinnati 7 months ago.)

I go to the new girly doctor and I make it through the whole blood pressure and weight taking part/torture. The doctor comes in and we are in the "getting to know you before I ask you to remove your pants" part of the appointment. He was nice. He seemed intelligent and caring. I held it together for approximately 3 minutes. Then he asked me if I had any concerns. I said that sometimes I feel anxiety. And then I started sobbing.

I'm not sure anyone has ever been Prozac-ed so fast in all of history. I think he would have wrestled me to the ground and shoved it down my throat if he had had any emergency Prozac on him.

The good part is that it helps. Some.

And then I spent the last few months playing. Mostly with these freaks.

I haven't talked about them much. I didn't talk about anything much because I was so afraid of getting pigeon-holed as a mommy-blogger or that chick that bitches about her teenager-like angst all the time or the lady who waxes philosophical about marinara sauce and sunsets.

So I played with these guys.
And I drew some stuff.

And I took some pictures.

And I am trying to remember that tiny piece of me that knows how to scream FUCK IT at the top of my lungs.

Except for at the library. They frown on that there.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Where I just close my eyes and hit "publish"...

It's all in my head and then I sit down at the computer or with a blank sheet of paper in front of me and suddenly none of it is right. Suddenly I have to have something to SAY. There must be a MESSAGE behind the words. It's all very exhausting.

I can't just talk about my gray roots or that I have become obsessed (in my mind) with attempting to fill my freezer just in case of Doomsday thankyouverymuchNationalGeographicChannel. And honestly, I am not really very good at being a Doomsday Prepper and filling my freezer. Right now it is stocked with dinner rolls that I got on some fantastic sale around Christmas-time. I could fill the Post-Apocalyptic bread baskets like a hundred times. You are welcome, World.

I can't talk about the butterfly napkin holder I got at a thrift store that is sitting on my kitchen table with the sad $1 price tag still on it. I bought it with the intention of sanding it down a bit. Painting it. Making it kitschy and utterly fantastic. But I went to buy sandpaper and there are all these CHOICES. And it is really hard to look at the dude at Home Depot and say with a straight face "I'm working on a refinishing project of a 1970s-era plywood napkin holder. What would be the correct sandpaper to use to retain its rustic charm?" So now it just sits and mocks me and I am about 10 seconds from puffy-painting its ass and calling it a day.

And I can't talk about the anxiety that grips my brain so hard and so suddenly that it takes my breath away. That it makes it hard to leave the house. That making a phone call to order a pizza actually hurts. That makes it so that talking to anyone- even those I know well- becomes terrifying. That makes writing anything impossible.

Self made prisons are the most confining.

But today I actually got up and got dressed. I got up and got dressed like I do every day, but today I did it without feeling like throwing up.

I'm counting it as a win.

(Even though the Anxiety-Bitch in my head says that you all are totally making fun of my shirt behind my back.)