Streak and Ye Shall Find

“Put your penis away or you’re going to time out!”  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.  I was kinda loud, too.  Did the neighbors hear?  Have I unwittingly given my son some sort of penis shame?  I really am trying not to give either of my kids body issues but geez.  The kid can’t extract it from his pants in public, right?

It’s at least partly my fault.  The penis shit started pretty quickly.  We were in the backyard filling up the pool.  Pool singular turned into pool plural due to the bitching and squabbling and hair-pulling and attempts-at-drowning going on in the first one.  But that’s not an integral part of the story.  Anyway, as the pool (the first one) was filling, Felix discovered that the water jet tickled his penis.  Ok, son.  Let’s move on.

Then he had to pee.  And he was dripping wet.  So what’s Mom to do? “Why don’t you just tee tee here in the corner of the yard?”  He had never done that before (at least not to my knowledge).  Why not?  I save my floors.  He pees.  Winners all, no?  

Well, as far as Felix was concerned, weeing in the yard was the bees’ knees.  Nothing has been so amusing since Lightning McQueen.  You’d have thought he cured cancer, he was so proud of himself.  And the whole experience must have made him feel as one with his member.  Shall we say the horse didn’t want to go back in the barn.

Y’all, this may be one of those areas where I’m unfit.  Any time any of this shit happens, my inner Beavis and Butthead come out.  Just as I’m ill-equipped to pee standing up in the backyard, I’m obviously ill-equipped to  teach my boy child how to responsibly use his boy parts. And with that, I’m off to the store to buy teepee for my bunghole. (Are you threatening me?)

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Pricks of the Trade

It’s the official start of the summer doldrums around here, whereby if you can’t get out and about before 8:00 AM or you aren’t participating in some water-based activity you’re pretty much screwed.  I had a really fun Thursday and Friday, when our wee little 5 month old compressor on our bouncing baby central AC went out.  Yes, it was under warranty, but dammit.

Stella rocked her first week at zoo camp.  There were a few hiccups, but they were minor and few.  There was even a day when she didn’t get her meds and kept her shit together, which is gratifying.  She’s back at the zoo this week, so I’m thinking we’re in for smooth sailing.  She’s also starting martial arts this evening; I hear it’s good for ADHD brains, and that’s what she picked over piano.  My house may about to become violent.

The Dude is the Dude.  That kid is relatively unflappable.  He has developed the “I’m scared” crap at night, which is irritating and comes out of absolutely nowhere.  I also got him to sit through his first movie in the theater, Captain Underpants.  I don’t count the Secret Life of Pets last summer, when I spent all but the first 15 minutes chasing him around the lobby.  Best of all (to me) was that I bribed him with “science.”  I promised if he was a big boy and was still and quiet we’d get the microscope out when we got home.  Win!

Movie tomfoolery

Science = bribe. I heart this so much.

Something did happen that bothers me.  We went to a local shop to let the kids pick out a project to do.  We ran into one of Stella’s classmates and her mom.  The mom is great.  She’s one of those folks you see that you wish you could hang out with, just to get to know them better.  And you would, except for time and work and kids and…

Anyway.  Stella saw her classmate and ran up and gave this girl a huge hug.  I thought it was sweet.  The other girl did not.  She had a look on her face as if Stella had the world’s worst BO ever.  Stella didn’t notice, thankfully.   My heart hurt.

The mom gushed that we should all get together and the girls could play and all will be right with the world.  I wanted to ask her if she was aware that her kid would probably rather have a needle jammed into her eye than hang out with my daughter.  I didn’t.  I just awkwardly tried to take my girl and get the hell away.  I probably seemed either completely crazy or she thought I needed a restroom really badly.

Dammit, y’all.  On one hand, I’m glad Stella doesn’t notice that some – many? – kids don’t want to hang out with her.  She’s honestly happy to do her own thing for the most part.  But I know one day that will change.  And she’ll be hurt – badly.  On the other hand, she needs to know that her behavior causes kids to be uncomfortable around her, to avoid her.

That shit still bugs me 48 hours later.  And I think this will be something here to stay for a while.  I remember being bullied.  I can remember a kid named Joey Egersits leading a chant of “loser” on the playground for my benefit and enjoyment in 3rd grade.  I can remember a girl named Samantha threatening to beat me up in 7th grade.  I also know bullying has gotten so much worse since then. I had it easy.

I know the train is coming and it’s unavoidable.

Sorry.  Mondays are bad enough without people being maudlin.  So for your amusement, I shall show you what my children picked out at the same shop where the hugging went badly:

What could be cuddlier than a cactus?

Yep.  They each picked out a cactus pillow.  WTF?

 

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I Now Pronounce You Man and Knife

I have to give props to Will.  Lately, he’s been stepping up his game around the house.  He’s been chipping in more with general daily chores – without me having to nag ask, which is the best possible way.  He’s been making an effort to be more present.  He’s been interacting more with the kids, which they love.  It’s been wonderful.

But (and y’all knew there would be a but), sometimes he does shit that just makes my head spin.

After returning from the beach, he smartly took a couple of extra days off to recover.  On one of those days, I asked if he would be willing to take care of dinner since I’d be at the office all day, then picking Felix up, blah blah blah.  He said sure, once I helped him figure out what to make.  Tacos.  Easy and everyone eats them.  Plus we’re about to start another round of the Whole 30 eating plan, so we need to enjoy our favorites before going on the ultra culinary straight and narrow.

He doesn’t cook as much as I do, so he’s not as…. organized? as I am.  In other words, he always makes a huge F’ing mess in my kitchen.  That’s ok.  I’m always grateful to get a night off from cooking, and I’m pretty quick with a mess.  And on taco night, since he cooked, I was more than happy to clean up the kitchen.

Tacos.  They don’t require fancy knife skills.  You shred some lettuce.  You can do that with your fingers.  Oh, and the kids love black olives, so he had to slice some of those.  Olives.  Soft.  You can cut those with a butter knife.

He found the biggest. Damn. Knife. In. The. Kitchen.  To cut lettuce (and olives).  He’s done this before.  I don’t get it.

Lettuce, people. This is what he chose to chop lettuce with.

Can anyone explain this to me?  It’s the equivalent of picking a daisy with a chainsaw.  It must be a man thing…

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From Fear to Eternity

The past couple of nights have been wild at my house, y’all.  Last night, Will was working late.  The children were “playing.”  I say it that way because “play” consisted of Stella smearing herself with makeup again, reenacting Wrestlemania with Felix between applications.  There was even hair-pulling, wedgies, and sucker-punches with foreign objects.  Luckily, we don’t own any folding chairs.  My living room was coated with bronze sparkly powder.  I was afraid to take a shower.  That’s kind of dumb.  My kids are 4 and 6.  I should be able to take a 5 minute shower without fearing that someone will be impaled with something.

Yeah, Dude. Sometimes I just wanna run away, too.

I’m constantly assessing the hows and whys in my world.  The only explanation I can come up with is that school is out.  Our routine has kind of been exsanguinated.  This terrifies me.  The whole camp situation terrifies me.  I’ve gone to being excited about the cool stuff she’ll be doing/learning this summer (swamp camp, art camp, zoo camp) to sphincter-tightening fear.

I took Stella by the library before we picked Felix up from playschool yesterday.  She was acting completely bonkers.  I wanted to sign her up for the library’s annual summer reading program.  Another mom and daughter were in front of us, and sure, they were being ridiculously high-maintenance, but that was no excuse for Stella’s whining, twirling around (nearly kneecapping high-maintenance mom), and what appeared to be some variation of twerking.  It was embarrassing.  I almost had to drag her out.  It didn’t get better.  As we checked out our books, she acted like a spazz.  They librarian looked at us kind of funny, to which I made some smart-ass comment about the ADHD being strong today.  He said he understood, and that he used to be a special ed teacher.  I didn’t know whether to hug him or hit him in the throat.  I wanted to scream that she had just make principal’s list for the 3rd time in a row.  Special ed my ass.  So there.

I joke about a lot of stuff, and maybe I joke at inappropriate times/things. That’s my coping mechanism (since I can’t obviously drink wine at 7:30 AM or at 3:30 PM at the library).  I got that humor from my dad; you learn to laugh or you lose your shit.

Most days I’m able to say to myself “it’s only ADHD.”  Then there are days – weeks- like I’m getting now.  The reality is, as much as I hate to admit it, shit is different for us, particularly during intervals such as summer.  Other parents don’t have to worry so much about camp staff understanding this diagnosis, and being prepared to intervene if a kid just feels too damn much and loses it, or to make sure that a kid on meds is drinking enough liquids in the 90 degree heat, even if they don’t want to or realize they need to.

It also occurs to me that Stella and I have not had the talk yet, about how she’s different than other kids.  She knows her meds help her stay calm during the day and not yell so much.  Will doesn’t think we should rock the boat.  I think she needs to start understanding a bit more- that she’s old and certainly smart enough to get it.  I tend to defer to Will’s judgement on this stuff, as he’s been on that side of the librarian’s desk.

Anyone out there have any thoughts on this?  When did you tell your kid?  And what in the hell did you do with your kids during the summer, that time where most households can relax into the world of the unstructured – the very thing that can tear yours apart?

The horizon – equal parts fear and beauty

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The Check Is In the Male

“Hi, I’m Felix the Male!”  That was the cheerful greeting my son gave pretty much every single person he ran across while we were on vacation, whether it was the 2 older ladies in lounge chairs (whom he talked into giving him a very nice gastropod shell they had found), the cleaning lady on the elevator, our waitress at dinner.  All received news of his budding masculine prowess.  I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t offer to show them all his “tail.”  A couple of months ago, that may have been a distinct possibility.


In any case, we are back from vacation.  We met my father and stepmother at the beach for 5 days.  I’m trying to sell it to them such that they might move closer to me, Stella, and my MaleChild.  The weather was solid, the surf was up, and no one killed each other.  That’s always an important box to be able to check after 5 solid days of Togetherness.  I think we were all ready to go our separate ways at the end, however.


Yesterday was bittersweet, and not just because it was my first day back in the office after the break.  It was also Stella’s last day of first grade.  I cannot believe it.  It’s simply surreal.  The girl mopped the floor with it this year.  She made all A’s except one B at the  very beginning of the year – and it barely missed the A mark.  She now has the lust for A’s and awards.  She came home yesterday with a medal around her neck for doing so well all year, and her school gives these cool dogtag medallions for various benchmarks.  She has a whole row of them now – Student of the Month, 3 Principal Awards, A-B Honor Roll.  I’m so proud.  So very very proud.


I’m hoping things ease off for a while.  She transitions straight into summer camps next week.  I have anxiety about that, of course, her having to go to different camps every week with different kids and different staff.  But we’ll make it through somehow.  I’m just relieved to get a few months off from homework and other school-related activities.  I need a summer break. In my mania, however, I’m strongly considering signing her up for piano lessons and Tae kwon do.  We’ll see.

Anyway, I’m hoping to be back more regularly, at least for a while.  Y’all have a good one!

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The Seven Deadly Tins

A mom friend of mine texted me in frustration this evening – one of those memes with some old person swilling moonshine in their car.  In short, she didn’t want to go into her house with her husband and children. I responded with this:


This was what I was doing as one of the most ridiculous evenings in recent memory was unfolding.  Just prior to that awful picture of myself being taken, I was blissfully in the shower.  As I conditioned my hair, I heard the sound of the door locks been jimmied open.  Now this is nothing new. My husband taught my son how to pick locks about six months ago. Ever since then, I cannot go to the bathroom without at least one visitor. It’s pretty stupid.  This time however, it was my husband. He asked if I was sitting down. That was a stupid question, because I was clearly taking a shower.

“Stella pretended a Sharpie pen was mascara,” he said.  Oh shit.  “How bad??” He went to fetch her.  In the interim, she had clearly remembered the old mom/Sharpie trick; she ran and found some of the last remaining baby wipes in the house, and frantically scrubbed her face with them.    I’ve got to hand it to baby wipes: they are simply magical when it comes to getting Sharpie off of children’s faces.  She did such a good job that now you can only see black smudges when her eyes are closed.  Crisis averted.

Obviously inspired by the Sharpie pen, she decided to play “makeover.”  Over the years, I have collected small pots of pale-colored eyeshadow that I don’t wear, as well as some old brushes. I had given them to Stella to play with.  One of the shades was some sort of bronzer. She had painted her entire face with it, calling herself a “clown.”  She looked like the fucking Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz.  


A short while later, I was playing on my phone while my children went absolutely berserk. It didn’t help that my husband – who has a new 3-D printer – had created a custom dart for one of the Nerf guns.  Why was it custom? It was designed to carry a small cap gun charge. Think of it like a live warhead for children.  What made it even more remarkable was that he was shooting it in the house.  I can’t imagine why my children were cracked out.

My hysteria reached its peak when I went into my daughter’s room to turn on her sound machine.  Her sound machine is really just her computer, with a YouTube link which plays ocean sounds for 11 hours straight.  During her Sharpie pen escapade, she had decided to black out half of the alphabet andall of the special characters on her keyboard.  Suffice it to say, emailing is about to get a lot more challenging.  I tried to report this development to Will, but was laughing so hard that I was incoherent.  

Clearly we are all mad here.

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Fedora the Explorer

You know how from time to time I identify stuff that I’m just not very good at?  Doing hair, gift wrapping, and pumpkin carving stick out.  Try as I might, I’m just completely unskilled at these things.  Well y’all, I have found a new addition to the list: hat making.

As I mentioned in my last post, there’s been a lot going on – and a lot of extra stuff on top of the usual stuff.  Stuff is everywhere.  One of my extra stuffs was making myself a Mother’s Day hat to wear to tea at Stella’s school.  They sent home template ideas where you cut out the center of a paper plate and then tape stuff to it.  Y’all know I can’t do that, right?  In my mind’s eye I had a vision: a nice wide-brimmed hat crafted by hand with flowers.  Only instead of flowers, I wanted to use pinwheels.  Someone had just given  us 3 or 4 of them, so it was perfect timing.  The pinwheels would be mounted such that they could spin as I walked.  Glorious, no?

No.

It started well enough. I made a band and brim using zip ties, pipe cleaners and tape.  From there, I made a cage out of wire for the top.  Then I papier-mâchéd the whole shebang.  Then I spray-painted it white so that I would have a blank canvas.  So far, so good.

A strong beginning

Yes, it’s hat-like

Then I tried it on and Oh. My. Glob.  Either my head grew fatter over the course of 3 days or I seriously underestimated the amount thickness that the papier and the paint and the tape would add.  The hat perched merrily atop my head.  I tried to jam it down to make it fit and Oh. My. Glob again.  Pontius Pilate and the Romans could have used this thing during crucifixions if they ever ran out of thorn bushes.  I actually checked my scalp for lacerations when I took it off.  It was unusable.  I had wasted 3 days along with a zillion zip ties.

And in addition to being painful, the damn thing was STURDY. I could use it for a hard hat for work, if only I could wear it without blood loss.

Plan B.

The clock was ticking fast, with under 48 hours until tea time.  That meant no more mâché-ing as there was no time to allow for drying.  And despite all this, there was no way in hell that I was making a paper plate hat.  Just no.  What’s a mom to do?  Get busy with pipe cleaners.

If there is ever a contest for most obnoxious pipe cleaner hat, I win.  Let’s just hope it holds together during tea.

Behold! My obnoxious hat, made 100% of pipe cleaners.

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Vise and Easy

Glob, y’all.  I haven’t had even a moment to post in 2 weeks.  This sucks. I’m being squeezed.   I’m beyond busy and stressed.  As a matter of fact, I demand new words for busy and stressed.  The regular ones are insufficient.

I won’t talk about work.  Work has gotten so stupid I can’t even keep up with all my stuff anymore.  I’m not saying I always have my act together.  I would say that 90% I can arrive, look and act reasonably professional, with most synapses firing.  If you ask me what’s going on with a certain site, I can tell you.  Not right now.  Nope.  When people call to talk to me, I probably sound lobotomized.  What’s worse is that I’m about to use leave – a lot of leave.  There’s a beach trip, school events, and tons of early dismissal days coming up in the next 2 weeks.  I’m almost afraid to say things will calm down after that, but they might.  Mightn’t they?

This is what the inside of those giant above-ground storage tanks look like, in case you ever wanted to know.

What’s going on outside of work?  Let’s see:

  • 2 different teacher appreciation weeks at 2 different schools, slightly staggered.  They were staggered because of the impacts to Stella’s school schedule due to flooding.  I can’t tell if the staggering made this worse or better.  Worse, I think, because it’s making TA week run into my next bullet point (you’ll have to wait for it).  But seriously.  Can’t the folks at Hallmark or whoever came up with TA week please move this stuff?????  It’s the end of the year.  I’m done.  And it’s right on top of Mother’s Day.  And the end of school.  I vote they move this week to the end of January.  We’ll all be over the holidays and there really isn’t much going on at that point.  I feel bad that I’m kind of phoning this in this year, but I’m phoning it in this year.
  • End of the year party for Stella’s class.  And I’m a room mom, which means I get to help plan and orchestrate.  And you know what?  I love this stuff.  Just not at the same time as all this other stuff.  But never you mind, because my household is providing the entertainment: our foam machine.  Soon 69-70 first graders will leap through mountains of foamy bliss, only screaming a little due to burning eyes.  It’s an occupational hazard.
  • And Mother’s Day.  I. Can’t. Even.  I was feeling pretty good about one thing: this Friday, Felix’s school was having a lunch for the occasion, and Stella’s was having an afternoon tea.  Hooray! I could be there for  both.  Now, Felix’s lunch is postponed for Monday due to inclement weather threats.  Monday I’ll be in a meeting 2.5 hours away. I actually teared up a bit when I got that email.  Felix has been asking for MyMom/Dude time lately.  I’ve been spending extra time with Stella – largely due to Girl Scouts – and I haven’t been able to hang out with him as much.  Oui Oui will be pinch-hitting for me, at least, but it’s not the same.  Y’all know what I’m talking about.
  • And speaking of Mother’s Day, we’re supposed to make our own hats to wear to Stella’s tea party.  The school was very helpful, sending home cute instructions on how you could cut the inner circle out of a paper plate and stick flowers and stuff on it.  Y’all know I can’t do that, right?  So for the past 2 nights I’ve been concocting my hat out of zip ties, wire, tape, and papier mâché.  I’ve had paste up to my wrists by the time I finally fall, exhausted, into bed.  This absolutely demonstrates the level of my lunacy.  Seriously.  I need help.
  • And for whatever reason, my house must contain about 400,000 fruit flies.  I have no idea where the hell they’re coming from.  I let ourselves run out of wine for a while (the horror!) and all fruit has been banished from the counter.  Still they persist.  I’ve put out traps.  They haven’t worked.  After about a week a few corpses started to appear, but I think those are pity corpses.  I think the flies felt sorry for us and simply threw their naturally-deceased comrades in the traps to help my self esteem.  Bastards.

All of this comes full-circle to being a mom.  Whether you’re a Mom, Mother, Mama, Mommy, or MyMom, we juggle a hell of a lot.  I know there are tons of you out there just as frazzled and crazed.  Hang in there.  We got this.  And just in case I can’t post again before Sunday, I hope y’all have a wonderful Mother’s Day.

Because it’s always worth it, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

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A New Crease on Life

You know how from time to time you experience something that rubs your nose in the fact that you are, in fact, aging?  Something  that amplifies that “tick tock?”  I found one of those things on Saturday.  I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about it.  His name was Antonio, and he lives in some obscure makeup store in the mall.

Let me backtrack a bit.  I think when women hit a certain point, we start to feel invisible.  We realize that whereas we once commanded attention when we entered certain situations, now the younger, cuter versions are.  It’s kind of a crappy moment.  And that moment is a long one. 

I’m 43.  For the last 6+ years I’ve poured all of myself into my kids.  That’s cool.  I think that that’s what moms are supposed to do.  Still, I do recognize I need to do better by myself.  I would love cuter clothes, more frequent pedicures (and I hear there are these things call manicures as well, but I’m skeptical).  I’ve been making an effort to move around more and eat better consistently.  I’ve been trying to spend more time on my appearance.  I mean, I’m not that far gone, right?

So Saturday I found myself with a less-than-desirable task.  Felix and Will were at a Touch a Truck event – dude stuff – so Stella and I had a mother-daughter outing.  She wanted to go to the mall.  Understand I worked retail in malls for years.  I grew to hate malls.  I’m still not a fan.  But that’s where my kid wanted to go, so by damn I hitched up my big girl panties, grabbed my keys, and off we went.

We got there early.  Most of the stores hadn’t yet opened.  Since we go so infrequently, I figured we’d make a round and see what Stella might want to look at.  As we rounded a corner, this dashing metrosexual guy comes out from a small makeup store, handing me a sample.  I had my kid with me, so I was walking much more slowly than I otherwise would have been.  Usually I thunder through places like that like a stormtrooper  on speed.  If someone whose existence in my space-time depends on them selling me stuff or attempting to extort money from me even manages to catch my eye, they get my best “eat shit” look.  If they’re pushy, they may get a “piss off.”  But I had my kid.  Antonio – and believe you me that he introduced himself immediately – smelled blood in the water.

Next thing I know, Antonio is giving me some eye treatment on my right eye, asking me if I’m bored or “just lazy” because I couldn’t give him a complete product list of what I use on my face.  Stella is anxiously asking if it hurts.  The underside of my right eye feels as if it’s dessicating, the skin shriveling up like a raisin.  Oh, but Antonio wants me to see the amazing difference.  And dontcha know, this is the same product that Dr. Oz had on his show.  Didn’t I know who Dr. Oz was??  Oh sure, I must not have much time to watch television, since clearly I was too busy neglecting my face and daring to appear in public like that (cue the villagers with torches and pitchforks).  

I should interject here that throwing around a name like Dr. Oz isn’t going to help your cause with me.  I’d just as soon take the advice of that As-Seen-On-TV doctor as I would allow Dr. Scholl to give me a nose job.

Antonio abandoned my eyes in favor of the back of my hand, demonstrating his microdermabrasion cream (Oh look at all that dead skin coming off!) followed by his skin cream that contains real pearl powder.  Those poor bivalves, doing all that work.  And Antonio?  I’m a geologist, dude. Pearls may be pretty but chemically they’re nothing special – good old aragonite.  And Antonio?  I do have dry skin.  I’ll give you that.  But you could rub the back of my hand down with ChapStick and it’ll look better for a while.

Antonio somehow held Stella and I captive for about 15 minutes.  I was psychically begging my daughter to show her ass but no.  She chose this occasion to behave admirably.  And I could have all three products  for cost – only $190.  I’d have shot coffee out my nose if I had had any.  Antonio tried to be gracious.  He even “fixed” my other eye for me so I’d be even.  

When I got home and looked in the mirror, it looked like someone had painted my skin with some kind of funky adhesive.  What a miracle.

I’ve been thinking a lot about all this since it happened.  I guess I’m NOT invisible to people like Antonio who think I need “help.”  I must admit I’m kind of pissed for being such an easy mark, if only for a moment.  Part of me wants to feel really shitty about it.  I’m not young and thin and cute anymore.  But dammit, I’ve had 2 really really good excuses as to why.  I guess it’s more important for me to sign my kids up for fun camps and swimming lessons than to splurge on skin care.  I can live with that.

So Antonio? Piss off.  And Will?  Next year you go to the mall.  I’ll go Touch a Truck.

 

Stella at the mall looking young, moisturized, and gloriously unwrinkled

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The Seven-Year Bitch

Remember how in my last post I was on cloud nine because my kid had kicked an AR quiz’s ass?  Yeah, today wasn’t like that.  Today was a day where this whole ADHD reared its ugly head.

I know, I know.  I shouldn’t bitch.  It could be so much worse.  My daughter could have another condition – one which wouldn’t allow her to read much less ace a quiz.  I’m grateful every day for that.  But this ADHD schtick can be tough. She doesn’t look different.  There’s nothing obviously wrong with her.  And sure.  On my defiant days I’d kick your ass if you suggested ADHD = something wrong.  She’s amazing.  And she’s so fucking smart.  

Today was a Daisy Scout day.  Meetings can be challenging at times, as they are at the end of a long day and her meds are wearing off.  Especially if it’s an unusually busy agenda, you can pretty much guarantee some ass will be shown.  There will be outbursts, whining, and some level of hysteria.  Getting really honest here, I hate it.  I hate watching her become unglued.  I hate watching her act like an asshole.  And she does.  Sometimes she acts like an asshole.

The girls in our troop are used to it, I think.  It’s never been openly discussed, but I think our girls know something is different about Stella and that it’s something she can’t control and doesn’t necessarily understand.  I’ve seen them rise to the occasion at times, treating my poorly-behaving daughter with kindness.  It’s just a small part of why I love them.  Today we met with another, younger troop.  It was over double the number of girls we’re used to, and it was a busy meeting.  We were taking strips of old tshirt and making dog toys for a local shelter.  Cute, right?

Only Stella doesn’t know how to braid or even tie any formal knots.  There was a pretty typical -for her- outburst.  There were some other moms and leaders from the other troop present.  One looked at my kid and said rather snidely to her friend that “she is way too sensitive- like WAY too sensitive.” 

I was already watching this woman.  Earlier when the girls were on the playground I though I had overheard a snarky comment about Stella and “too much drama” when there was a disagreement about a popsicle.  Yeah, don’t ask.  Anyway, my bitch radar was already pinging.

Lettuce not be a bitch


Y’all, I was pissed.  I was so pissed I couldn’t feel my face for a minute.  My head swiveled around rather Exorcist-like and I said to this woman “She has ADHD.”  This woman looked at me all conspiratorially and said “Oh!”  I looked directly into her eyes and said -possibly through gritted teeth, “That’s MY kid.”

You may be thinking I’m the one being too sensitive.  Maybe I am.  But part of it was that this was a Girl Scout meeting – a Girl Scout meeting full of 5-7 year old girls.  And if you or your kid is involved in this organization?  I expect more of you.  I expect better behavior.  I expect that you will NOT act like an asshole, that you will keep your bitchy judgemental comments tucked neatly under your ponytail.

So yeah.  Today was not so good.  Today was a day when I remember why I worry about mundane things like summer camp or 2nd grade.  Today the ADHD won.  Hopefully I’ll kick its ass tomorrow.

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