Tooth Fairy or Not?

If it feels like you are doing something wrong then doesn’t that mean you usually ARE doing something wrong?! Well… that’s how I felt pretending to be the tooth fairy this morning. I felt deceitful. I felt sneaky. I felt… so alive. I’m starting to question my true calling in life. I could’ve been a spy. At approximately 6:03am my preset alarm went off notifying me that the tooth fairy needs to make her exchange. I, being said tooth fairy, entered operation sneaky mode. I tip toed into the next bedroom over trying not to breathe too loudly. Stepped on something wet in the floor, *please don’t be pee*, reached my hand under the sleeping child heads pillow annnnd… nothing.

I retracted my hand. Blinked to improve my night owl vision, and rubbed my hand on my pajama pants to stimulate my nerve endings so that they may be able to better detect said tooth. Then, for the second time I went back in. Ducking my head to the side, just in case sleeping beauty awakes. Nothing. “Where the heck is your tooth you rotten kid?”. I exited the room feeling a sense of defeat, grabbed a flashlight and went back in. This time from a different angle. “How are you sleeping through this? And where the heck is your pillow case?!”. Questions that will all have to be answered at another time. I let the light shine to the side of her face while examining the bed, careful not to beam the sucker in her eyes. And then I see it… I see a closed hand, tucked securely under the pillow. Oh dear, mercy!

This is what I have to work with

“So you wanna play hard ball, huh?” The things I whisper to my sleeping child as I’m trying to rob her of her baby teeth needs to be recorded somewhere. I turned the flash light off and wiggled my finger into the palm of her hand and found the TOOTH! Made my secret exchange and went back into mom mode. I turned on all the lights and told the girls to get ready for school. The kid didn’t even look under the pillow. Not even interested. I had to coax her to it. I did all of this, for an ooooh yeah, I forgot about that. Meh. I love you anyways. This tooth fairy may have just made her last run.

IF FEET COULD TALK

I was invited on a date by this dream boat of a guy who is 6’6, blonde hair, gym goer body, an all around physically gifted man. I was thinking to myself, whoa dude… I have birthed 3 kids and while I may have went to the gym once a few years ago, I don’t have the beach body that would match you. I accepted the invite with the internal thought that I could google how to became a supermodel in 24 hours and everything would be alright.

Cinnamon rolls for breakfast was not on the google results list but it’s what I had and I was hungry. Instead of picking out an outfit for the date, I went junking with my friend Casey and found some treasures to use my new paint sprayer on. I completely axed my Cinderella transformation. I had dirty boots on, dust in my hair, my jeans were soaked from the rain we had ran through, and when I got home I found gravy on my chin. This was not looking promising.

I rescued this beauty!

Quickly, I tried to make myself look like I hadn’t just rolled out of the sticks. I tried on seven pairs of pants. The only ones that looked modest, without holes up in the thighs, didn’t cover my frickin ankles! So I had to change my shoes to coordinate. Time was running out and the only pair I came across that could complete the coverage I was looking for were these G.I. Jane boots which made me look like I had just returned from Vietnam. “It’s cool”, I thought… we are going bowling and I’m changing shoes anyways so he will not even notice. Plus he is so tall, I bet he can’t even see other people’s feet.

When I first saw him, I went to give a welcoming hug and stepped on his foot. Like a gentleman, he chose to ignore it but as the awkward person I am, I brought it to his attention, “I just stepped on your foot.” He laughed his supermodel laugh and said yeah you did but it’s okay, and then it happened…. he saw my boots. “Oh nice boots, those are coming back in style.” Ah. I’m accidentally stylist. Nice. 🤦🏻‍♀️.

You can see the humiliation in my face 😂

I had Marco Polo my friend Kathy up until this point where she was coaching me to be brave and not chicken out. Because up until the moment I stepped out of the car I wanted to go back home, put on jogging pants, curl up under a fluffy blanket, and binge watch Netflix while painting quietly in my living room. She kept saying, “just breathe, take a deep breath in and out”. That girl could coach a Lamaze class. Sometimes we need a good friend to push us outside of our comfort zone. Thank you my friend 😉.

I used to be on a bowling league so I know all about how the bowling shoes run a size bigger. I have big feet for a girl, size 9 to be exact. I told the bowling employee I needed an 8, to which he sets a size 7 on the counter and says, “they run big”. Yeah I’m aware. But I didn’t want to make things more awkward with my feet than they already were so I silently accepted the shoes. I thought to myself there are people in other countries that wear smaller shoes all the time for beauty so you can do this girl.

Next to our lane there were a bunch of young girls, they were all drinking but they looked like children to me. I must be getting old. It was refreshing to actually hear him say the words I was thinking. I’ve dated guys who are still chasing the youngsters and it’s mind boggling to me, seeing as my daughter will be 18 in 4 years. Handsome and he has a good head on his shoulders. I really should’ve put in more effort to make that Cinderella transformation possible. Darn.

Approximately 10 minutes after the bowling game had ended I started questioning if someone had a voodoo doll of me, tormenting my feet. We had retired to a quiet corner for more personal time and mid conversation I noticed I had put my G.I. Jane boots on the wrong dang feet! What the heck. I wonder if he noticed when I excused myself to the bathroom to fix the mishap. If he did notice he didn’t say, or maybe it didn’t bother him. The night ended with me standing on my tiptoes because he is a whole foot taller than me. Oh mercy. This is to be continued as we are going shopping for some junk together, and pray for my feet.

The mad method to my baking

I’ve taken up a challenge to improve my cooking/baking skills. It’s more complicated than I originally thought. I’m not one to follow instruction well. In fact my motto in the kitchen is, “let’s just see what happens”, followed by fire, smoke and an “oh no, that can’t be right”. I’m not talking about your Pinterest recipes either. I’m talking about boxed Mac and cheese. I have a new oven. It’s changed me. I feel that I need to honor it and give it a good life. The other oven was somewhat of a slut and smelled like tomato sauce seared into an over done apple pie. This new oven in different. Loyal. I need to respect this baby.

Following those canned instructions like a pro

I wanted to up my game so I started using recipes from scratch. I don’t understand most of the baking lingo. It’s like a foreign language to me. YouTube has become my shadow. Sifting, soften, kneading, beating… come on recipe makers, I don’t know what the crap those things mean when baking! It sounds like I’m reading a romance novel. I had to google every one of those terms. I even moved a tv into the kitchen so I didn’t have to keep taking a timeout to figure out the meaning.

The madness… painting and baking with a tv in the kitchen. I love it.

I finally made my first batch of cookies from scratch. It was messy, sticky, and terrifying. But it was better than any store bought cookie I had tasted before. Does everyone know that these homemade foods are this good? I’ve thought about opening a bakery with these cookie skills! Of course I will have to substitute that crisco shortening stuff in all my recipes. I almost used it… almost. Until I saw the warning label on the back in bright red letters. Fire warning. Major fire warning. It even goes into detail on what to do when the stuff sets fire… oh heck no. I catch non flammable stuff on fire, no way I can take a chance on something that requires a warning label.

I’ve read that the energy you use when cooking/baking transfers into the food you are making. I guess that’s why people say, “made with love”. I wanted good energy in my food so I set out on an adventure to dress my body in something that would make me feel the best. I found this 1970s style wedding gown at the local goodwill. I go there and try on the old creepy dresses sometimes. Don’t judge me. You have your hobbies and I have mine. Anyways, this dress has the biggest puff sleeves I’ve ever seen. I felt like a princess. The back wouldn’t zip all the way up which ticked me off. Who the heck in this town is skinnier than me? I love this dang dress so I’ll just have to buy a corset to squeeze my spine into it.

There is nothing better than baking cookies in an old wedding dress. Swishing around like a mad woman, praying the fire department isn’t called later so you don’t have to explain your attire… it’s risky business. These cookies will be made with energy that you’ve never tasted before. Just when I think I’ve found the ultimate happiness I get a random Snapchat from a guy, a selfie. I’m like eh? I don’t have time for this silliness. I can’t respond right now. I don’t even know how to respond. I can’t send you a snap back of what I’m currently wearing, that would send the wrong message.

Since when did we revert back to the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics form of communication anyways? You are much more likely to grab my attention with a phone call. I felt it was safest to ignore. I do have good judgement some of the time. I only use the snap to convert my voice into something hilarious anyways. I may be 31 years old but I laugh everytime my voice and face gets altered by that app. My baking that night was a job well done. I am still munching on the goodness made with that unique energy. I’m planning to bake something similar for the ladies at work, they need a conversion of energy anyways. There’s bad energy “sifting” around. See what I did there 😉

Dear elf on the shelf, I hate you.

I did the elf on the shelve one year for my kids. I thought it would be a fun time for the kids, so I Pinterest all the fun things to do and went through the motions. I hated it. Every. Single. Day. I hated it. Just call me Mr. Grinch. I hid the little doll and pretended it had to rotate families each year so it could visit all the kids. I even went as far as saying that Santa already made his list out and the elf only visits those people who aren’t on the nice list yet. I thought I got away with it too. Sleeping in every day. Minding my own business, wrapping my own gifts. Then it happened. My mom took my kids shopping this weekend and the smallest kid returned with a new elf.

I side barred my mom and told her I hated that stupid elf. That there was no way I could have that manic in my house again, it gets in all my stuff and leaves me exhausted throughout the holiday. It’s as bad as being married again, no thanks. “We already bought it.” Mom said. 😫. My oldest daughter happily joined the side bar and assumed responsibility for this elf. Fine. I’ve watched Kali night after night arrange this elf better than I ever could. The little girls run out every morning searching for it and giggling after the mischief. I still don’t like the elf but I love seeing the girls happy and Kali enjoys doing it so it’s a win, win in my book. Until one morning when I didn’t see it. Scared the butter right out of me. Literally. I dropped my toast and the elf went tumbling, the girls crying and me apologizing to Santa. Ah, the holidays are right on track.

This morning I woke to find the elf in the same place. I thought, oh Kali forgot to move it. I went to move the thing. As I got closer I noticed a letter:

There’s a strategy I haven’t thought of!

Kali is a smart kid. Using the elf to control the other kids… genius. She sounds like a mini mom. I love it. I can’t wait to wake her up this morning and give her smiling secret eyes that say, “now you know, now you know why I hate this elf business hahaha”. Both younger girls have already visited the elf this morning and promised to be in bed earlier tonight. Genius. Maybe the elf will disappear again next year, maybe Kali will keep this going, who knows. As for now, I’m enjoying this delegated responsibility of maintaining the elf from a distance. This probably doesn’t align with my goals of being one of those cookie cutter moms but we all knew I’d never reach that status anyways so I’m cool with it.

MURPHYS LAW STRIKES AGAIN

Pain is something I’m used to. I have to be careful when I sit Indian style, or to be politically correct “criss cross apple sauce”. Which by the way makes no sense because apple sauce can never criss cross. The cold hurts my bones and turns me into a hobbled old lady. I look like I’m auditioning for a role in the walking dead as a zombie. I’ve tried to get it fixed, ortho consults, injections, anti inflammatories, the works. I’ve given up on the dream of being pain free and walking like a runway model, besides I think the gangsta walk suits me better anyhow.

This passed weekend I watched too many hallmark movies and got inspired to clean my attic out, pull my Christmas decor down, and bake a pie. The pie part was challenging, I had to watch a YouTube video with my daughter on how to beat an egg and then we didn’t know what to do with it… the can didn’t say if we should mix it in the filling or where to put it so I had to contact an expert. My older brother Jo Jo. He has always been the baker/cook of the family and for Christmas one year he surprised me with a ton of cooking stuff I’ve never used until now.

A little too late, might I add. We already screwed up the pie and racked it up on our list of Pinterest fails. We like failure around here, it’s educational. The kiddos went off to their dads as usual on the weekend and I decided I’d get in the attic to try part 2 of my hallmark inspired weekend plans. I forgot my sister had a ton of stuff piled away since she is in the army and needs a place to keep her memories safe. Naturally I went through all her things like any good sister would.

Why are you saving this dinosaur?

After neatly organizing everything into clear totes, I started my ascend to the attic with the remains of my sisters youth. It was heavy. Too heavy. I got halfway up the ladder and gave the big tote a big push and whoosh, my shoulder felt like the devil being soaked in holy water! I dropped the nonsense memorabilia and laid against the wall pretending I didn’t just screw my shoulder up. The pain didn’t stopped, not after ice, not after nsaids and rest and praying. Crikey. Now I’m really in trouble with myself. I am a worker. I don’t simply watch a movie, or sit still for anything. I always have my hands going, knitting, crafting, writing, ect.

My new worst enemy

I decided to show my wound some attention when I realized I couldn’t hold my coffee mug and brush my hair without a stabbing pain. So I went to the dreaded doctor, actually I love my doctor but I hate going. It’s only torn, no break 🙌🏼 ! They said to take the rest of the week off and no lifting but that’s just a guideline… like stuff they have to say when you’re a patient so, I hid the note and went back to work the next day looking like the hunchback of notre dame with ice packs shoved in my scrub top. I’ve mastered the art of looking fine when I’m in pain for years so the next couple or weeks should be cake, fingers crossed.

Being home from work was too boring. I didn’t have anything to do while the girls were in school and I imagined spending sick days being productive, like laying on the couch with the flu while crocheting a blanket and folding laundry here and there but none of that happened. I grazed through the things I pulled down from the attic, reminiscing through memories of my dad. He’d probably make me a peanut butter sandwich if he were here. He always did that when I was out of commission. I remember crying in front of the fridge once in my wheelchair days because I couldn’t reach the milk and felt helpless. He saw me from his office and came to the rescue as always. I miss that old man. I was able to visit a piece of his life over the weekend.

He had great taste in books hahaha

I’ll be revisiting most of his treasures for the next few weeks as I’m not able to get them back in the attic so if I seem suspicious for the next little while it’s because I’m learning secret trades from an old crook hahaha. Talley ho!

Motherhood Madness

Breakfast is free at my kids school. It. Is. Free. I don’t like to make myself something early in the morning when they haven’t gone to school yet. So I usually wait or pick something up on the way to work. However this morning I want to make it to work on time and I prefer not to be hungry so I pop some quick cinnamon rolls in the oven for the girls while starting some simple eggs and toast for myself. The girls venture into the kitchen like little birds, mouths wide open, stumbling around and touching EVERYTHING. Of course they want what I have instead. Of course. I make more eggs. My niece is dropped off as her dad heads to work. I make more eggs.

Toast? I’ve made 10 pieces of toast this morning. Where’s the butter? I just sat the butter on the table… *opens fridge, pulls butter back out for the 2nd time*. Maleah (age 9) is fast walking around the kitchen as if she has places to be, grabs the butter and yells, “WHO KEEPS LEAVING THE BUTTER OUT!” Me kid. It is I.. the butter bandit. I’ve pulled out all the bells and whistles for the perfect ‘mom makes breakfast before school picture’. You know, paper bowels and plastic utensils, perfect for clean up 😉. But do my kids use them? No ma’am. They are savages. Straight up savages.

That toast ain’t even got a plate man

Remember those cinnamon rolls I popped in the oven at the beginning. They’re done now but no one is touching them. I ask my teenage daughter if she’s going to have one? She says, “No I only like cinnamon rolls made from scratch, not a can”… so now I’m looking around trying to figure out where in the Betty Crocker hell this chick thinks she was raised! Whose mom has been making you cinnamon rolls from scratch? Huh? Tell her to pull up and we’ll have a pancake challenge! I have a big spatula and can flip 2 pancakes at a time ✌🏼.

Straight from the can

With all the little bellies full, I start in on the pre school interrogation. “Do you have your teeth brushed, where’s your shoes, hair… fix your hair, grab the back packs, has anyone fed the dog?”…. “Mom, the dog killed a possum!” Kali says all panicked. “Well don’t give him any wet food today, just the dry food since he is already getting his wet food elsewhere today”. Kali looks at me horrified. *blink, blink* where do you think that wet food comes from kid?

The madness of motherhood is doing the same things over and over, expecting a different result, only to find the butter has been placed back in the fridge for the 4th time in less than an hour. Over and out.

YOU ARE ENOUGH

Do you ever hear that voice inside your head that tells you, ‘you’re not enough’? I went through a therapy once that I would say changed my life. This person counseling me to confront traumatic events from my past had me close my eyes and imagine I was watching my life on a tv screen. He told me to hit the rewind button and go back to the event that caused me so much hurt in my life. An event I had chose to ignore until that day, an event that caused me to build walls that shut people out and made me into a cold person. He asked me to hit the pause button and step inside the tv to have a moment with my former self. I did as I was instructed during this session. I stepped in and saw that young girl, alone and hurt. I hated it. I empathize with that girl. I understood what she was going through. He then told me that in this part I was to imagine my former self could only hear and see me as the scene was paused. He told me to tell her I loved her. He wanted me to tell her all the things I wish she had known at that time. I don’t think I had ever talked to myself before. At least not in a kind way. As silly as it may sound this changed my life. The way I talked to myself before was cruel, I was my biggest critic.

Be your biggest cheerleader! Do not tell yourself you are not good enough, even if everyone else is saying it! Think about it, would you ever look at your child who ask to try out for the basketball team that they are not good enough to make it?! No! The answer is no! Go back to school, apply for that job, get in that gym! You are good enough! Change the way you talk to yourself. I struggle with this sometimes, especially when other people make me feel like I am less important than I am. Maybe someone blows you off, or you fail at something new you tried, it doesn’t matter… try it again, because you are worth more than you think. It took me far too long to realize this. That friend who cuts you out of their life, they don’t deserve you. That guy who ghosted you, he doesn’t deserve you. That school you wanted to get into that sent a regret to inform you notice? You got that right, they don’t deserve you! Move along and prove that you can be just as happy and successful in life without the people who have encouraged those negative voices in your head to gossip.

With all that being said, I AM ENOUGH!

MY INTIMATE REVIEW

Consider this my walk of shame and not just because my legs have been crippled. But because I didn’t expect to enjoy it. I never do. I knew I needed it. It makes me real relaxed afterwards and It’s been months since I’ve had it done. I always search for the person who doesn’t seem to be talking much. I don’t want meaningless conversation, I just want it done. Sounds crude but it is what it is.

That’s why I chose you. You were quiet but confident. A taller man with strong arms. I quickly discovered your silence was incidental to not knowing my language. You still spoke to me in all the right ways. I could tell from the beginning you knew how women worked. I asked you not to do something and you smirked and did it anyways… I liked it. I didn’t think I would but I did, you knew that didn’t you? Or did you just not understand what I said and did what you wanted to me? It doesn’t matter, you did well. Your hands were soft and your rhythm was unlike anything I have ever experienced. The pressure came and went, at times I felt my bones were breaking but it felt too good to stop you. I pulled away from the intensity numerous times but you pulled me back in to finish the job. You commanded my every movement.

Time stood still as you changed speed to move up my legs. I caught your eye glimpse up at my face to see my expression while you worked your magic. Trust me, if we weren’t in public I would make all the sounds needed validate your work. You made my toes curl countless times and I heard popping… why did I hear popping? Who cares, it felt good. I vow to never go to anyone else for my needs from this point forward except you. You have my undivided attention. It was the best pedicure of my life. 😜

Confessions of My Broken Tiara

I’ve never owned a pursue. The thought of having to keep track of a thing that holds my other things is exhausting. Have you ever tried to run with a pursue? I haven’t. Although, I’ve tried to run with a kid on my hip before and it’s not easy! There’s this thing that holds other things that won’t get you dead in a parking lot with a creep, it’s called a pocket. You can run with pockets, I do it ALL the time! And jewelry? Meh. I have a total of 9 piercing. I don’t know why. I can’t remember the last time I wore so much as an earring. My dad taught me that’s the first thing an attacker will go for in a fight. Slice my ear lobe in half? No thanks sir. I won’t give you that opportunity. I blame my dad for my fear of putting on the jewels. He made it seem like I’d be attacked a lot more as an adult.

I wore the same pair of tennis shoes to work for 10 years before being peer pressured into buying another. Shoes are expensive. I don’t even like wearing them. Church shoes are the worst. I’d rather be a woman of the Amazon and run barefoot throughout life. These new shoes should do me for another 10 years.

I’m not a cooker. I try. It doesn’t turn out. Probably because I’m not a big fan of instructions. I have an album on my phone titled “burnt food”. My wall fire alarm has been crippled with a hammer and the fire department has been summoned several times. You may be wondering how I’m surviving in the adult world. I’m wondering the same thing. Lord help any man who thinks he’s settling down with this princess.

Dinner’s ready

I am extremely proud of my flaws. It’s the reason for the imperfect photographs and post about failure. They make me human. I smile when I fail because I know already I’m going to try again until it’s perfect! Isn’t that the point of having weaknesses? To try again until it’s a strength? I’ll be perfecting my weaknesses with a fire extinguisher close by.

I may sound like a hazardous plain Jane. I’m not. I wear makeup. My daughter even commented on it the other day saying, ‘It’s not 2004 mom, what’s with the eyeliner?’ Well kid it’s 2019 and I hear they’re still selling eyeliner so step off.

I wear perfumes, lotions, smelly good stuff. I love candles and the smell of cleaning chemicals. Normal feminine attractions. Sometimes I even brush my hair. I’ll confess, I don’t brush my hair everyday… hurts my arm. I need to lift weights to manage this untamed Chewbacca like hair hosted up on my scalp.

Do you ever look at someone and think… that person right there would never survive a war… I say something similar when I go get a wax, I think… man I’d never survive a beauty pageant. These rituals normal females go through is like being a prisoner of war. It’s slow torture that doesn’t end. Painful shoes, bras that have wires stabbing you slowly in the rib cage as you walk, ripping the top layer of skin off repeatedly with waxing strips… slow and painful torture… just put me in the front line of this war and be done with me.

I admire those women who have all these qualities, you are all amazing for accomplishing these things routinely! I’m not ashamed that I don’t, I don’t like to. We are just different folks! It’d be boring if we were all the same right?! So while I’m admiring your qualities, respect mine. I won’t buy your makeup, or your thirty one bags. I pretty much have to force myself to enter a regular store let alone purchase something online. Seriously, I sit in my car for about 20 minutes debating on if it’s essential to walk into the grocery. I want watermelon but I don’t want to go inside, it’s a hard decision. Don’t waste your time on me, I’ll support you and tell people about your products but I’m not buyin. You do you boo boo.