When there are less kids in the house

So Dylan went off to camp first came back with stories about catching a three foot long king snake and it biting him three times, being "punished" by his camp counselor and being required to do things like perform Justin Beibers "Baby" in front of everyone to eating weird food to having to rub a random man's beard while saying "wuza wuza wuza". He also made up nick names for his roomies.  Names like "Gansta baby", "The Chicken Whisperer" and "Annonymas" to list a few.  He was "Jimmu" which apparently means warrior in Japanese. 

The kid is growing up.  He's getting more hilarious everyday and he's *this close* to being taller than me.

While he was away Daymon played video games without interuption and not once did I hear "Mom, I had the Xbox first!"  It was lovely.  For both of us.

Now Aliya is at camp.  In California.  For a week.

I hear she's having fun. I don't really know, she's not texting me!

I mean, I get it.  Who wants to text their mom when away at camp?  But I had dreams of getting cute selfies while she's on the beach and at Disney Land with her friends.  You know, she would be the ONE who would text her mom because...duh. 

Turns out I'm just as lame as all the other moms. 

I did not see that coming.

And while I'm on the subject, it also turns out that only one of my three kids is willing to have skin to skin contact with me in public.  It's Dylan.  In fact, he will full on wrap his whole body around me.  I don't even care one tiny bit.  It makes up for the other two. 

So you see, I'm just a big lame weirdo mom with what I'm assuming must be leprosy and cooties. 

In the end I'm pretty sure this is how they see me:

And this is how I see me:

Some days having teens is a level 12 on the 0 to 10 scale of "Zero being the least amount you want to rip your heart out and ten being the most you want to drink wine in the bath while sob texting your best friend". 

It's amazing and heart breaking and beautiful and maddening and so very tough to keep your mouth shut sometimes, but so very worth it. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go back to not being texted.  I'm really good at it. 

Your guess is as good as mine

I pretty much feel at a cross roads on this blog. 

I'm not really sure where I'm going with it.  I mean, most days I'm just rambling about silly things that, let's be honest, don't mean anything more than the equivelant of empty calories and I don't know that I love that. 

So it begs the question: what is this blog really about? 

WHO AM I?? 

I'm having an identity crisis. 

It seems to me that the blogs I read have a general theme.  They are about something.  I seem to be about nothing. 

I'm not really a mommy blogger, although I posess children and do blog about them randomly.  I'm not really a humor writer exclusively in that I do write about the occasional serious things and...do they do that?  I have no idea!! 

I feel so lost. 

I'm not a zombie writer, because a zombie writer would never write about other things, they would only devote themselves to the undead.  Obviously.  Even though I do love me some braaaaaaiiiinnnnnssssss.

So back to square one.

I would kind of like to be known for something.  Like "Oh, yeah, that blog that she does, the one with the really cool______________."  What.  Poetry?  Photography?  Stories?  Literary genious?  Recipe for really good salsa? 

Just kidding.  I'm pretty sure my salsa only appeals to me and Aliya. 
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So until I figure it out, I'm just sort of making it up as I go.  And I have to believe that one day you and I will collectively say "Oh, yeah.  Totally.  That's what her blog is about."  And I'll know what that is. 

And I'm thinking it will be awesome. 

Yes there are 781 reasons before this one

Reason #782 why I will never be allowed to write a parenting book.

Allow me to set the stage for you. 

It's a Wednesday night, I'm in the middle of making dinner, the kids and I are all convened in the kitchen, the boys with homework in front of them.  I have already been arguing with Dylan about how little he has been doing so far and Daymon is in the middle of a full on melt-down.  As in crying, yelling, pencil throwing melt-down.  Why you ask?  Because Aliya and I are trying to get him to understand how his homework works and why we have come up with the right answer and he has come up with the wrong answer. 

So in order to really get my point across to him I decided it would somehow make me look even less like a total jerk to say "You know, I am 26 years older than you so I do know a whole lot more."  Purely classic move.

Then, to up the ante to the highest level, I told him that if I was indeed wrong, {laugh} that I would owe him a dollar. 

Let's just say the look on his face as I handed him that dollar bill the next day was a little smug.

But he earned it.

Pride doesn't go down in one big swallow, you have to chew for a while.  But somehow I don't think he'll remember the dollar.  I think he'll remember the "I'm sorry".

But seriously guys, when did fourth grade homework became so hard?  Because now I'm beginning to question my IQ...

Objectivity. Not always awesome.

Sometimes we get a random insight into what we look like objectively.

It can be really weird.  And less than attractive.

Dylan handed me his phone and said "I have a strange voice mail that I can't figure out, who is this?"  So I listened to the eight minute message that I had inadvertently left after I thought I had hung up.

It started out with me saying "I'm going to go get Dylan!" and then there was a lot of rustling around right before it got good when the car radio started and I began to very loudly sing with Rhiana because we totally have the same vocal chords and I can hit all the same notes.  In my head. 

I was actually enjoying hearing myself sing with no inhibitions when I suddenly stopped to scream "Are you kidding me right now?!  Why?!  Did you intentionally get into my lane and slow down just to make me angry??  WHAT THE HECK??  Seriously??!!  Dude!  You suck!! AAAHHHHH!!!!!"  Well, okay there was no death rage scream at the end but the rest happened. 

I mean obviously there is some man out there hell bent on causing me a bad day.  And put a steering wheel and a whole lot of metal between me and him and I will let him have it.  If he can't hear me of course. 

Wow.
I had never heard myself from a third party view before.  Or in other words, from my kids view before. 

What is it about being behind the safety of my windshield that suddenly emboldens me?  I would never walk up to him and start yelling at him.  Or singing at him for that matter, but in front of my sweet babies I'll rip the guy a new one. 

It felt as if God himself had reached down and placed the phone in my hands and said "you should listen to this. Remember what I said about love?  I meant even when you're driving." 

I'm pretty sure I need to start driving around with duct tape on my mouth for a while.  

It's that or I'm going to start anger dancing out all my frustration but I'm fresh out of leotards and sweat bands plus I don't know where any empty warehouses are because everyone knows that's where the best angry dances take place anyway. 

Someday your kids will say Chris who? Just wait.

The strange thing about having multiple friends who are in their mid twenties, is that I forget that I'm so much older and they go and say things like "Red Dawn is a re-make?" and I cringe inside because that movie made me want to pee my pants when I was a kid but now it's just a stupid "old" movie with has-been actors and awful graphics. 

Patrick Swayze was the Chris Hemsworth of the 80's.  And he could dance.  Just sayin. 

Carrie, the demon car on Ivanhoe st

I'm guessing if my car could talk to me it would say:

"Listen, while I enjoy all the spilled popcorn your kids grind into my carpet and how you insist on leaving 2 liters of diet coke in the back to just roll around and hit the sides of me as you take corners at what feels like 70 miles per hour, here's the deal lady.  You make me really stabby.  So now I am refusing to get cool, like at all, and oh that "surging" thing you hate so much.  Yeah, that's going to be a big problem.  As in the transmission.  So good luck with that.  Also I hate you." 

My car is really grouchy. 

When I took it to the mechanic to get the air conditioning looked at because we live in Phoenix and news flash, it gets kinda hot here in the summer so I need a/c, our conversation was unfortunately typical:

Guy: So tell me about the problem.

Me: Well, the a/c won't get cool at all, among other things.

Guy: Other things?

Me: Yeah, I mean, you know like car stuff...

Guy: Like?

Me: Well, it does this like, stalling thing.

Guy: Explain.

Me: Well, if I idle at all it then decides it doesn't want to really go when I step on the gas, or like it's thinking about it first.

Guy: I think we need to look at that before the a/c.

Me: But it's hot?

Guy: ....

Me: This is going to be stupid expensive isn't it?

And as if I had some sort of mechanical car sixth sense he called me later to tell me it would be a mere $6,000. 

I'm going to name my car Carrie as in she wants to kill me by taking all my money and not allowing us or my children to eat and then become homeless people living on the street with empty bread bags on our feet just shuffling along saying "I only need this ashtray and this lamp and this one left shoe." 

Or we're going to trade it in.  We haven't decided yet. 

Free chair massage or also called Aaaahhhhhh!!!!!! when you're screaming

As hubby and I were walking into one of our favorite lunch date restaurants, mostly because of the endless chips and salsa being directly proportionate to how cheap we are, we happened upon the local chiropractic office throwing a "customer appreciation" fair on the side walk.  This included free food.  Did I mention we are cheap?

So we stopped and signed up for a free chair massage because, hello, we are cheap. 

It was my turn and I happily sat down all excited and completely unaware of the horror and amount of pain about to befall me. 

She didn't ask me how I wanted my presure she just asked me if I had any "issues" and looking back I should have said "I like my massages to feel like kittens licking me."  Unfortunatly I did not.

So she started working between my shoulder blades with her fingers of death and then I felt like I might cry. 

Only I kept thinking that maybe she knew better and that perhaps if I could just endure the pain then later it would feel better. 

At one point I think I blacked out from the pain and her elbows digging into my spine right before it felt like my nose was breaking as it was becoming one with the chair. 

Longest fifteen minutes of my life. 

As we sat at lunch later I could hardly hold my diet coke to my mouth to take a drink and that's when I asked hubby how his was.  He told me that twice the chair broke and twice she fixed it and moved on as it that were a completely normal thing during a massage. 

The next morning I felt like I had been in a fight.  You know, because I'm in fights all the time. 

I'm thinking maybe this isn't the perfession for her. 

Or my pain tollerence has gone way down. 

But the icing on the cake?  They take my health insurance so next I'm going to let them jab a really long stick up my nose into my brain and spray some medicine to see if it will fix my migrains.

 You know, just for funsies.