All posts for the month December, 2017

Being Needed

Published December 22, 2017 by sarcasmica

My big kid is 11. Admittedly, he could be considered a momma’s boy. I’m ok with that. The oldest is the guinea pig, and they teach us the most about parenting…usually the parts you don’t like very much. The oldest has the biggest expectations in front of them, and also the most frustration and somehow at the same time satisfaction. Hey, i’ve managed to keep this kid on the planet thus far -and God willing for at least 98 more years, give or take.

My oldest child is my biggest teacher. Just when I think my head will explode from one more Minecraft story, lo and behold, it still sits atop my head. Just when I think I have no idea what the hell I am doing as a parent, I hear my son encourage his little sister do something only he could convince her she could do.

He’s growing up quickly, just like the brochure promises, and I find he needs me less and less. These are good milestones for sure, and I find relief in knowing he is independent.

Today, however, he needed some TLC and it was nice to comfort him.

The day started off nice enough. We all went to see the new Jumanji movie. It was pretty funny and everyone laughed throughout the film. Once we got back home, my son asked me to look at his foot. He had been complaining off and on the last week about his feet being cold and sometimes tingly.

I look today and he has one dark swollen toe, one toe turning blue, and blotches of red on other spots, but just one foot.

My husband has his podiatrist on speed dial since his own surgery last year, so we called and they were able to see him.

Turns out my kid has something called Raynaud’s Syndrome. The circulation in his feet is being restricted by his own body. His arteries and capillaries restrict the flow to the extremities- in his case, the toes, and it can become very serious.

Holy shit! What?

Turns out, according to two reliable medical websites, this can sometimes be a side effect of some adhd medications.


So we’ve spent the better part of the afternoon and evening warming feet by way of warm bath, fireplace roasting, heating pad toasting, and wool sock doubling up. When it came time for bed he complained of intense itching and couldn’t settle down to get to sleep. This is an already sensory heightened kid, and apparently the symptoms of Raynaud’s are exacerbated by stress.

So around and around we go

I rubbed his back for a bit to help distract from his mutinied feet. After the final goodnight he said,


“Yea buddy?”

“I’m glad you’re my mom.”

Ugh. Straight through the heart.

“I’m glad I get to be your mom, honey.”

And there it is. The rare golden Mom moment. I may have nearly caused my son to lose a toe by dragging him all over town in 37 degree weather over the span of two days. I may not have given much thought to a week’s worth of complaining about tingly feet and frozen toes, but here we are. He is still happy to be my kid, and I am more than happy to oblige.


Plague 2017

Published December 21, 2017 by sarcasmica

This post brought to you by : Mucinex

This month has been pretty hectic, not unlike most folks’ Decembers, i’m sure. My daughter was home sick in the beginning of the month, and I fully expected to catch it like usual. What I did not expect, however, was for it to turn into the plague of the year. This thing morphed from a hard-hitting knock out cold to a lingering cough, to a disturbing sleep interrupting nuisance. I want off the roller coaster.

To date it’s been about 2 weeks and here’s the damage:
Boxes of kleenex: lost count after 4
Boxes of Mucinex: Currently beginning box 4
Bottle of Nyquil: 1 bottle
Zycam spray: 1 bottle
Cough drops: 2 bags
Husbands Patience: working on the last thread
Children’s Concern: Growing
Holiday Parties: 2 – 1 of which I organized and executed solo
99% of holiday shopping: Amazon
Laundry done: none.
Meals prepped: infinity

I’m worn out. I am so glad the kids are on break right now because driving them to and from last week in our freezing temps was not fun. I am going to be Sloth Mom for the duration of this break and I do not feel at all guilty for it. This time last year I was nursing my husband back from foot surgery. I was making a bed every single night for the first time in my then 40 years on this planet. I was waiting on, bandaging, medicating, chauffeuring, and somewhat emotionally supporting him. Looks like it’s my turn this year.

I’ve been putting off making Christmas plates for the neighbors because, let’s face it, no one wants to eat a plate of plague cookies. Even if I shower and put on clean clothes to pass them out, no one is going to purposely ingest anything this face or hands has hovered over. .. but I already bought the ingredients. Maybe i’ll send my little elves to pass them out so no one has to witness the zombie chef who made the actual food. Mwahahahahaaaaa

Merry *cough* Christmas *spit*
Ho Ho Ho

Annual Melancholy

Published December 7, 2017 by sarcasmica

Every year I fight to find some Christmas spirit. My holiday is Halloween. Love it, decorate way early for it, watch all the movies, play all the music and this past year even took my daughter on a combined birthday trip to Disneyland to experience the Halloween Haunted Mansion/park experience. It was so much fun!

When Christmas rolls around, however, I always find myself kind of glum and appreciating all the pretty neighborhood lights and decorations, but not really feeling any of it. Getting all the crap out, the tree up, the tree set up arguing with the husband, the fight to have everyone participate with the ornaments, the kids constant running “I want” list… it just doesn’t feel very festive and fun. I usually force myself to do something festive that will sort of shove holiday spirit in my face and down my throat for a distraction. Nothing has quite worked yet. Last year I did a craft fair where I worked like mad for weeks to prepare, and then sat at a table all day to sell one stinking wreath. It’s one of those crafts that apparently turns out far more interesting in your own head than in other people’s eyes.

This year I took on the job of holiday party coordinator for the volunteers at the parrot sanctuary. I have never planned a party like this before. Sure, I was in HR a million years ago B.K., (before kids) but that was a work requirement. I had all the budget and payment information and we had a Rolodex (look it up, millenials) of vendors to choose from.

Notsomuch now. Now it’s just me in this new city trying to figure out how to accommodate an ever changing number of attendees and diet requirements and budget parameters. I am not a phone call person. I am not organized. I don’t like getting quotes and asking questions to live people on the other end of a phone. (obviously HR was not my true calling) I didn’t so much mind the venue search, and I am enjoying the decoration planning and fun party stuff, but the catering stuff has given me a stress rash. I have asked for help, but it seems this is not a task anyone is particularly fond of. I am going to do my best and that will have to be that. If anyone complains, I will have a volunteer sign up sheet for next year…. and maybe a special finger ornament they can put on their tree. Humbug!

I was talking to my chiropractor yesterday after the post-robotics-tournament all day bleacher/camping chair sitting adjustment and he told me the body remembers trauma. A person can have a sudden injury, deal with it, eventually heal, but the body remembers that trauma.

As I was considering the time of year today and getting sick of myself and my mood, it occurred to me that maybe this feeling of mine goes all the way back to my dad’s death. It was traumatic. It was isolating. It was lonely and sad and all of the terrible things death brings. It was 16 years ago, but the impending day, the ghosts of all of that sadness and loss may be masquerading as Scrooge-itis. It’s hard to start December off with jolly happy feels when December 9th, 2001 began with a 5:30am phone call and a spiral of sorrow for days and days and days after. Just connecting the two thoughts brought me to tears today as I was driving on icy roads back home from errands.

At the time of my dad’s death, our family was not united in any way. I suppose some families come together to deal with it and help each other as a unit. Ours literally went to separate corners and wallowed and processed apart from each other. I didn’t get to do this completely, as I was the only one willing to help my stepmother get through the planning and logistics of losing someone. I was 25 and having to write an obituary for my father, planning casket logistics for someone who didn’t fit in a regular casket. I was helping my stepmother break the news to her family and his family. I also had strep throat at the time, which made consoling pretty complicated.

The good news is eventually the Christmas excitement kicks in. It’s usually not until Christmas eve when I’m wrapping gifts and fretting over how many gifts is too many and alternately hoping everyone has enough to feel special, but at least I get there.

For anyone who has dealt with a loss, I am so sorry. For anyone reading this who has lost a loved one around a holiday, I am greatly sorry. There is never a good season to lose someone you love, but holidays can certainly leave an impression. I suppose we should cut ourselves some slack and leave a little room to grieve and remember so we can move on. Maybe don’t stretch yourself too thin and nominate yourself for ridiculously complicated tasks! (note to self)


Holding It Together

Published December 4, 2017 by sarcasmica

Most of a parents’ job is holding your shit together. No matter what, you are expected to hold. it. together. Use glue, use tape, use chewing gum, use spit, use whatever you need to to hold. it. TOGETHER, man!

I sometimes find that I get into these shitty moods. Craptacular moods that put “hangry” to shame. For me, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. What’s the opposite of “hangry”? Stangry? Feengry? I’ve stuffed all the emotional border snacks into my face and by the end of the internal fit, i am disgusted with myself and all the things i’ve eaten.

Border snacks = anything and everything bordering your space as you move through the house/office/mental ward.
Stangry = stuffed angry
Feengry = Feed [your emotional disgusting face] angry

Anyway, today I’m in one of those moods. I realized it may have something to do with keeping it together through two nights and days of my daughter’s short-lived terror of her dark bedroom and bathroom last week. Also, my son had a robotics tournament yesterday and a parent was required to attend the entire day with the child. 8-5:30 alternating between camp chair seats, cement floor walking, and bleacher sitting. My husband managed to tag me out for an hour out of the day. He was there for the last, most painful bleacher-seating hour, so I guess that counts for double the points….. but not really. (Hello Dear, no I don’t want to talk about it)

Anyway, so back to my point. A parents job is to hold it together no matter what. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve joined into a fit and tantrum a few times in my child’s lives just so they get the full impact of their ridiculousness. It’s quite fun, actually. You can’t get sucked in, though. And boy do they try! The older they get, the more refined their tactics become. It is their mission to suck you into the argument and drag you down with them… to the floor… where they are flailing around in a desperate attempt to find their actual point.

I’ve mentioned before that my daughter conned us. She is a spectacular con artist! See, she began life as an angel. She was a wonderful toddler, and she was a caring and loving preschooler. Then shit started to get real. She has never lived up to the terror and horror her older brother has thrown at us, but she has her own special recipe for crazy-making.

She is terrified by all things imaginary. Ghosts, zombies, monsters, her stuffed giraffe, and now boxes. Yes, boxes. She had a bad dream involving a box being opened beside her and something terrifying jumping out. Therefor in her 7 year old mind, all boxes are now expected to threaten her life. The dreamed box was a threat, so now the boxes existing in real life are naturally the same. Duh. Dumbass mom.

So last week she was asked to go brush teeth and get ready for bed. She had to go upstairs, where her grandma was in her own room, all the lights in the landing were on. The bathroom light was off. Clearly, one cannot simply walk up to the switch panel and turn the light on. NOoOOOOOOOoo. No way. One must stand farthest from the dark room and scream, squeal, cry and rant about it being dark. We are talking utter panic.


To be continued…

At first I wanted to scream and rant right back at her. Instead, I walked away. Once I cleared her insanity radius, I was able to collect my brain cells and chuckle at the absurdity. Then I would go back and try to talk sense into her. Yelling at her right back does not help. Getting loud back at the offender simply feeds the hysteria.

This fit lasted around 20 minutes. Once she saw I was filming she continued without a single care. I even opened the front door at one point hoping the shame of her friends who are neighbors hearing her would snap her out of it. Nope. She was on a mission to have someone, anyone, come turn on a light for her. I will not raise a princess. You will turn on the muthatrucking light switch. No one is going to rescue you except yourself. 2 years old? Ok i’ll help. 3 years old? Ok, i’ll help. 7 years old? I will help you help yo’self.

This portion of the evening entertainment includes coughing brought on by crying that sometimes precedes vomiting:


So I think my new theory of parenting is for each tantrum you manage to contain your own shit through, the crapier you will feel later. All that incredulousness and disgust at your offspring’s behavior manifests itself one way or another. You would think by now I’d become a runner or a power lifter or something. Nope. I have become a power snacker-then-regretter. But i do it really well.

Overspending Is In The Air

Published December 1, 2017 by sarcasmica

It’s that time of year again! Rejoice! For unto the earth a credit limit is reached. Mom guilt, peer expectations, and childhood emotional baggage all crammed into one joyous day month.

It seems it’s been 17 days since my last post. It’s taken nearly this long to recover from the loose tooth drama. We have a magnificent, fantastic angel of a dentist for my daughter. They managed to squeeze us in first thing in the morning on Thanksgiving eve eve. My daughter was LIVID that I had made the appointment. Nobody really cared how mad she was, though. We all just wanted to get to Thanksgiving intact, ears/hearing at 100%, and all actually liking each other.

The dentist numbed my kid’s face, cleaned the 1/4 of her mouth she had been neglecting to touch with her toothbrush, and barely breathed onto her mouth when POP! The offending dangler popped right out. Next she told my daughter, “Let me have your hand so you can feel how clean your tooth – WHOA! You pulled it right out! Look at that!” and hysteria-type giggles came from my child’s nitris masked face.

We all breathed a sigh of relief. The grand finale was the doc telling me she wont go through any more loose teeth until around 9 years old. WOOO HOO!!!!! SURELY she will be beyond the paranoid hysterics by then, right?!! We wont even fathom understanding the hormones that will be trickling into her body by that time.

Thanksgiving conquered, now we move toward Christmas. Oh holy night. My kids have been circling toy catalogs and amazon dreaming since November 24th. When my sis in-law asked what the kids put on their Christmas list, it occurred to me to actually dig the catalogs out of the trash and take a look. What a concept! The short answer of what they circled is just “everything”.

I cannot blame them. They are kids! Every Christmas we tend to go all out. I wont apologize for it, but it is a spectacle. It’s also setting everyone up for eventual disappointment. See, I grew up without much money. Christmas was humble in our house, to say the least. It was happy, it was fun, it was normal for me. This crap i’ve grown into is a bit alien. It’s fun because we know it wont last. Each Christmas for the past 2 or 3 i’ve reminded my husband it might be the last our son still believes in Santa.

Sure enough, we had the talk this summer after his on and off asking about the truth. (pretty sure there’s a blog post about it somewhere) So now this year it’s just my daughter drinking the kool aid eggnog. My son has managed not to spill the beans holly about Santa yet. I’m proud of him for that. The amount of winking he’s done lately is enough to drive me batty, though. “Mom, tell SAAAANTAAAAA *wink wink* I want this one.” Now that I think about it, if my daughter doesn’t pick up on this I might worry about her IQ.

Anyway, so we are in a new neighborhood this year. Halloween rocked, and it looks like twice as many people have decorated for Christmas. Who knows, I might start chugging the kool aid and bake something to give away!

Hahahahaaaaa. Yea right. I’ll hand out little travel bottles of liquor. I bet people would actually consume those.

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