For several years now, I have had some requests to start my own blog. I have always blown it off as false flattery, but recently all that all changed. I had a comment on facebook from a person who thought i aired too much of my family laundry, and this morning I woke up with the sun with one thing on my mind...how can I continue to do this in a bigger forum? How can I reach even more people and offend them with my inane day to day goings on? So here it is, folks. I'll try to explain the importance of this in a very long, drawn out, completely off the mark way. Bear with me.
When my kids were still in larval form, entirely too young for nice gifts, my mom began sending those awesome $50 pop up books for all occasions. The kind you so hopefully label as an heirloom, with visions of it living on forever in the long line of awesome mom's you will create. Our favorite one by far had pictures of animals on every page, but was split in the middle, so the tops and bottoms of different creatures could be morphed with the tops and bottoms of others. The joys of seeing your 9 month old when they first create a crabtopus, or octorus, is truly joyful, and, coincidentally, began our life long fascination with name morphing.
this book was also one of my first brushes with death. You see, before you have kids, you are invincible. You can stay out all night riding an eight ball and slurping down rusty nails. You can show up for work , ON TIME, fueled with krystal's and gas station coffee, and you can do it in the same eyelashes you had on the night before. Then you can wash, rinse repeat, and refill the 10 gallon bowl of cat food in the middle of the kitchen floor before you head out to do it again. Nothing can slow your roll. Then, in an instant, that 18 hour, painkiller free, only-time-in-your-life-you-ever-consciously-decided-to-stay-sober instant, when you bowels are being ripped open and strewn on the operating room floor...that moment when a tiny, blue, uterine cheese covered, taker-of--all -things- financial, pterodactyl-like-screaming CHILD OF PERFECTION finally rips through your never-to-be-the-same-vagina (is there anyone else in this ward that feels the need to fist me? Cuz I am about to go ninja on aaaaalll ya'll)...you begin to die. Your heart begins to feel things you never thought possible, and you develop the ability to assign greatness to the most insignificant of actions, all at the same time blaming yourself for all that is bad in the world. You see, that book that really belonged to my great grand kids, got taken into the bathtub, and drawn on by hidden markers under the bed, squoctopus was secretly taped together the wrong way when I wasn't looking. It got smeared with pb&j and boogers, it got slept with and drooled on. It was supposed to sit on the shelf with back lighting, and be taken down at supervised bed readings. It was supposed to last as a testament to how great childhood was. But instead, it got shredded and ripped and used up for everything it was worth...it got loved. And every time I realize how off the mark my intentions are, and how much I am truly pulling this parenthood thing out of my ass, I die a little. So this blog will be a testament to all things that are killing me. Killing me gloriously...with love. And if all goes right, it will be peppered with farts, and shit talkin', and zane's wiener jokes.