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To the two ladies who sat next to us at the beach today. I owe you both a beer. Or 7…
Sorry I scared you. I’m sure the last thing you came to the beach for was to watch the lunatic woman next to you retching uncontrollably. Sorry I yelled too but I was getting frustrated that everyone was panicking and asking me questions that I physically couldn’t answer unless the only answer they were looking for was “huaaaaaaargghhhh ::pant pant::HUARRRRGGHHHHHH! I do love knowing that they worry about me though. I’m usually pretty confident that my kids wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.

I’m also sorry that my kids are assholes. They aren’t at the age where bickering is cute anymore and much to all our dismay, beating them isn’t socially acceptable. Amazing as it may seem, it was easier when they were toddlers. The initial set up at the beach is not unlike the melee that happens when all 10 of us are seated in a restaurant.  Depending on the degree of the magnetic pull based on the current lunar cycle, the tilt of the earth on its axle and the mood of a few key players in my house, the arranging can go as slick as Anthony Weiners well….you know. Or it can be more traumatizing than a my daughters watching Kanye dis T Swift on live tv.

Today was a Kanye/TSwift kind of day. There was a large audience, differing opinions, a few tears, some swear words…all very dramatic.

But at least we aren’t like the family sitting on the other side of me. Douche canoe  dad of the year award goes to the toolbag who tossed his screaming daughter into that water in hopes of making her see just how fun it really is. Imagine being about 5 years old, freshly spackled in 900+ sunscreen and innocently digging to China with a plastic spoon, when suddenly you’re being helplessly thrown into shockingly cold, tumultuous water that may or may not be infested with the spawn of Sharknado. The water is dark. You can’t see your feet and your father is laughing maniacally at you while splashing what you swear is salty acid in your face screaming ISINT THIS FUN???!!!!! No wonder the poor kids screaming brought the lifeguard over to inquire. In fact you ladies left over an hour ago and that kid is still sobbing and most likely scarred for life.  Should that father get stung by a jelly today, there will be a LONG line of people more than happy to pee on him…in fact I should probably drink some more water.

Where were we….oh yes..assholes….teenagers…pre-teens and tweens…you name it. I got it…kinda like Pamela Anderson and STDs.
It was easier when they were babies, I tell ya. Back in the day we had a routine. We had assigned seats. We had 5 point harnesses. Now…every day, my life is like the running of the bulls. The screaming, the chaos, the blood…

Teenagers suck. They suck the food from your fridge. The gas from your car. The money from your pocket.The joy from your life. Long gone are the days of fuzzy jammies,  tickle time, snuggles and random acts cuteness.  No longer do we hear from the other room, “your my bestest friend ever, we’re gonna live together when we grow up too! ” now it’s commonplace to hear things such as “I’m going to stab you, with a knife, right through your heart! IF YOU EVEN HAVE ONE!!!!” In fact, just moments ago, Cody told Ryan to “eat it” and shoved his face in the sand. I pretended not to notice. Ryan then went off and dumped ketchup all over Charlie’s fries so Charlie goes and stomps across all of Jordyns neatly arranged towels..the cycle repeats itself over and over. Its the circle of life, Simba.

I used to tell my kids all the time “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.” Today I told my son I was going to sew his face shut. And by God, if I had my sewing kit here in my beach bag the deed would be done.

Yep, memories….love them…I used to think my kids were so sweet and cute i could just eat them up. Now, I wish I had! What the fuck. Seriously. I don’t have teenagers, I have mean-agers.  I have a daughter who yells at me when I tell her how nice she looks, a son who won’t let me touch him and a few that I’m ready to start my own Hunger Games with.  My eldest boy, lets just say one of us is going to end up locked up…probably me…in a Rubber Ramada…
There are some days when  I want to go reminisce about their little people days. I can imagine it now…Mommy…why is that scary looking drunk woman wearing pajama bottoms and one shoe staring at us all playing in the ball pit?? SECURITY!!
So, as I sit here on the beach, the hubbies chair next to me is empty because the teenagers needed a ride to work . The OCD child is shaking out towels for the 900th time and strategically placing them in a perimeter around us. My biffle (best friend for life)  is snoozing on the big blanket at the center of the towel  moat. The two witless boys are taking french fries and placing them in a circle around them in the hopes of being attacked by a flock of rabid seagulls, causing the lady nearby to glare evilly at me, as I pretend to not notice. Again.

They aren’t always assholes though. You ladies just missed out on a good moment when one of my little crotchfruit pulled out a bottle of bubbles that I got them, for shits and giggles, yesterday. She’s sitting here lying on a towel blowing bubbles discussing her summer read book with her big sister. Then she asks her if today is a good day for sailing. So big sister sailor goes on to explain that despite being gorgeous, a day like this would be difficult because of all the luffing that would require a lot of tacking.(whatever the hell that means) And she is actually listening. No one is yelling, fighting or bleeding. The seagulls have moved on to the tourist family about 100 yards away who’s kid dumped a whole bag of pretzel sticks. No Park Rangers have come to  us with ding and dong in handcuffs. (yet) The screaming next to us has stopped. I don’t see the kid…she might be off on a walk but  I heard rumors she was completely buried in the sand by a disgruntled local. And as the bubbles float by, I look at her face. I do miss that awesome toddler she was…her chubby cheeked face and the blond ringlet hair…but the beautiful young lady she is growing into is pretty damn awesome too. Bitchy, but awesome. In fact every  one of them are growing into amazing young adults and although the teen years have thus far left us all feeling more abused than Octomoms uterus, we will make it. Better, stronger, closer.. .So yeah…sorry they were assholes .. its a phase, they will get over it…and someday when they have kids, and those kids become teenagers, they will be assholes too..I know this for a fact, Simba, because its the mother fucking circle of life!

So, Hakuna Matata bitches! Live, laugh and love!

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Ahhhh… Mothers Day…

     I remember the days of being all doe-eyed and oogie over a hideous breakfast in bed knowing full well the clip_image002kitchen probably looks like a Third World Country. Gifts like tiny hand prints pressed into cement, so much cuter than the tiny handprints in ketchup on the walls. Mothers Day Tea parties with cucumber sandwiches and fancy paper hats made by dirty, sticky hands that I ate and wore with a smile on my face.

    

I ALSO remember thinking that when they are older, Mothers Day will be a fancy breakfast buffet with mimosas in crystal glasses and Eggs Benedict on fine china, served AND cleaned up by someone else. Gifts like a day at the spa and maybe a real cup of tea like Earl Grey, with lemon…and actually hot.

The reality is… acutely different.

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My kids now range from almost 10 to 17. And right now, the only thing I want from them is this…

1. Flush the fucking toilet.

2. Pick up, un-ball and place into a laundry basket your crunchy, Frito smelling socks.

3. When you take your pants off.. don’t leave them inside out with your underware securely attached to them. They are 2 separate items. Take them off one at a time.

4. When you walk in the door and actually remember to take off your shoes, MOVE THEM FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE DOORWAY.

5. Stop putting half eaten bowls of cereal in the fridge. WTF? You will NEVER eat it later. Hell, the dogs won’t even eat it.

6. Penicillin has already been invented. Bring your plates and cups down from your room.

7. Keep track of your shit. IE: iphone/ipod chargers. Stop stealing mine.

8. When I hide something, I isn’t a game. You aren’t supposed to go looking for it. (like chargers…)

9. If you have a spider in your room, and are too fear struck to kill it yourself, get me or dad… we will help, judgment free. Stop lighting them on fire, insurance won’t cover that. Spraying them with Febreeze won’t work either and whacking them with a metal bat only leaves holes in the wall.

10. If you make a hole in the wall, fix it. But not with gum and candle wax.clip_image006

11. Girls, I will happily share my makeup with you. But keep in mind it’s far too expensive to waste doing blind make up challenges, doggie makeovers or dressing Charlie in drag. Awesome as it may seem..please, refrain…

12. Boys, I will happily share my tools with you. But please put them back when you are done. I break a lot of shit and need them often…

13. Clear the browser when you use my computer… there are some things a mom doesn’t need to know.

14. Stop slamming doors. Every time you slam a door, an angel gets its wings chopped off… think about that!

However, if you are so inclined to actually do something for me on Mothers Day, my sweets, do something good for a Mom in need. Because, despite my bitching and complaining, I know how lucky I am to have Daddy and you guys and I am incredibly blessed to have all I could ever want or need.

 

 

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This is Jorge… his nickname is Pooty…

and a container of Tang…

Get it?

God, I love my kids…..

My ancestral home, Ireland.. Éire if you want to get technical.

The interesting things I learned this weekend researching it with Kasey for her school project..

“There are not only no snakes in Ireland, but no native turtles. There are frogs, one salamander, called a newt, and one lizard that bears its young alive.”

After she read that aloud, Kasey and I had the most interesting conversation….

Mom… ???

Yes Kasey..

There’s only one salamander in Ireland?

Yes, Kasey.

Why?

Well, after the ice age, any other species that might have been there were gone from the cold. And because Ireland is an island they really cant relocate themselves from other places…so… just the one salamander!

Where does it live?

Probably under rocks.. there are a lot of rocks in Ireland.

But what if someone kills him? His name is Newt!

If you could have seen my face. I laughed, I cried, I peed.

Charlie comes in….

Kasey re-reads it. Still looking at me like Newt just popped out of my forehead.

She wonders why I am sitting down, nearly passed out from laughing till I was breathless.

She figures it out. Smiles…

All Charlie hears is “no” and what he thought was “dogs”.

There are no dogs in Ireland? What?

Because I am a terrible mother and I like to prey on my children’s innocence, I say “ Just three…and they all live with Newt”

Kasey chimes in “Under his rock.”

And then we went to school…..

 

Gosh… I hope Charlie doesn’t tell his teacher about the one salamander in Ireland named Newt who lives under a rock with his three dogs…

 

 

I would really love to include a picture of the 2 salamanders TJ used to have when he was in 5th grade…but the only pictures that were ever taken were of them playing leap frog.

But they really weren’t playing leap frog. I just told everyone they were playing leap frog. Because the only thing two boy salamanders do like that together is leap frog.

RIIIIIGHT????

I am about to experience, but hopefully, not remember, one of my worst fears in life. No, I’m not about to be eaten alive by a 600lb tarantula. I am not about to walk into 12th grade science class butt naked. Nor am I going to eat squirrel pot pie with stewed okra. I am going to have a Brazilian Butt Lift. (AKA colonoscopy.)

Your hiney just clenched, didn’t it? Its ok, I know the feeling.

The mere thought of it is terrifying me. I had 8 kids in 8 years. That’s 72 almost non-stop months of pressure on my bum, and not one hemorrhoid, not one pile, not one reason to stock up on the Preparation H and Tucks. Purely by the power of mind control. I willed it NOT to happen because there was NO WAY some doctor was going to scoot their chair over to the foot end of the patient table I am lying on and say “Now, lets have a looksee.”

Sure, I had countless interns elbow deep in other parts of me checking for dilation, presentation and such, but my rear end? OH HELL NO!

That’s what makes this turn of events so damn…I don’t know… colonic? I mean, ironic?

I spent the last 15 years meditating on my intact bum hole and its as of yet, unchartered territories, only to have its innocence stolen from me at the ripe old age of 39. According to the American Cancer Society, the American College of Radiology and the U .S. Multi-Society Task Force on Colorectal Cancer I am a good 11 years early for this particular soiree. And the funny part is that I’m usually late for everything.

No, I’m not planning on going the Katie Couric route, and stay awake for the procedure. Tweet mid-scope and document the event for prosperity. I will happily take the propafol that will almost instantly render me defenseless to the will of my doctor and her staff, whom I trust will not draw inappropriate  things on my face, take pictures with their iPhone and then post them to Facebook like my teen children and their friends seem to love doing to each other.

I will hopefully wake up thinking of dancing bacon again or something equally as awesome.

A good 3 hours into the preparation I realize, its not the actual scope that I need to be worried about because epic chemistry will handle that part,  its what leads up to it that strikes fear into the souls of those poor bastards like me destined to have their large colon photographed, biopsied and generally mucked around with by their gastroenterologist.

Without any further adieu let me present to you all, THE PREPARE TO FEEL LIKE YOU DIED AND WENT TO HELL PREPARATION SCHEDULE.

10am today: 10fl oz of Magnesium Citrate, otherwise known as “Lightening in a Bottle” or its generic label “Shit Yer Brains Out, Toot Sweet”.” and 8oz. of “CLEAR CHOICE”  liquids. Take note that “CLEAR CHOICE” is not a brand name of some liquid scope aid at the Pharmacy, nor is it a beverage of high class, top shelf, quality ingredients. It is, in fact, whatever clear liquid your can tolerate and keep down after chugging said bottle of  liquid lightening.

  Little side story here… Not 2 minutes after chugging my “Will Soon Wish You Were Dead” in a bottle and a chaser of “clear choice”, I got a phone call from school that Ryan was sick and needed to be picked up. I walked, nay shuffled,  into school carrying Cameron, the 1 year old I watch, in his car seat, praying to the Lord in heaven to not to let me A.) sneeze B.) cough  or C.) shit in my pants. The nurse was busy with some whiney child and I rudely but necessarily interrupted her to tell her that just before she called I had finished off a bottle of Magnesium Citrate. Her eyes got real wide and she rushed over to me to sign Ryan out ASAP.  LOL. Gotta love that lady.

    We drove home, at a safe but rapid pace and about 3/4 of the way home,  somewhere from deep within, a growl not unlike the hounds of hell began to crawl up from my belly. I calmly turned to Ryan, looked him dead in the eye and said “If mommy has to pull over, don’t look. OK?”  By the time I got home, it was more like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the rapture was upon us. Things started to spin. As I walked up the front lawn, lugging the baby, the front door suddenly started pulled away from me like something out of Alice in Wonderland. I started to pray, I started to moan, I started to RUN! Everything turned out ok and no animals were killed in the making of my way to the bathroom but, “Praise Jesus!!!” for five point harnesses on car seats.

 

Back to our “Schedule”

12pm-5pm: I need to drink  AT LEAST one half gallon of clear liquids. My chosen liquids being 7Up and  Gatorade. Classic, plain ole’ yellow, lemon-lime Gatorade. I like to keep it real and kick it old school, folks.  That’s just how I roll. (mind you, in this house, implied death threats must be utilized to keep the minions from drinking whatever they happen to come across in the fridge) Notice how I don’t need to label the Citrate as untouchable???

skull and crossbones, effective or not?

5pm you must have: bullion soup. clear liquid (no limit) Jell-O (except RED)

And to that, I say… ::head tilt:: WTF?

Your thinking, SO? have some damn soup and Jell-O and STFU about it already…

Well, my friends.  The paper actually reads bullion soup. and THIS, could pose a significant problem for folks that tend to be literal.

where am I gonna find THAT?

bul·lion [bool-yuhn]noun

1.gold or silver considered in mass rather than in value.

2.gold or silver in the form of bars or ingots.

3.Also called bullion fringe . a thick trimming of cord covered with gold or silver thread, for decorating uniforms.

4.embroidery or lace worked with gold wire or gold or silver cords.

What they SHOULD have typed in the instructions is

bouil·lon[bool-yon, -yuhn; Fr. boo-yawn]noun

a clear, usually seasoned broth made by straining water in which beef, chicken, etc., has been cooked, or by dissolving a commercially prepared bouillon cube or cubes in hot water.

To be honest, I was struggling with the idea of having nasty beef or chicken flavored broth, but  now I am at a total loss as to where I could even FIND some soup made of silver or gold ingots. I bet Trader Joes doesn’t even carry THAT! And to expound upon my dilemma even further, does it matter if I have gold or silver? What are the pros of each? Or more importantly the cons? Better yet, THE COST!  I mean, the current cost per ounce for gold is $1678.45 yet for silver it is only $32.37. Holy crap. Does my insurance cover THIS??????

They are NOT making this bowel prep easy on me are they?

7pm: 8oz clear liquid and 2 Dulcolax tablets.

   Um… TWO? Well, I guess someone wont be sleeping tonight. If you thought the Citrate was effective, you have never taken Dulcolax. Its concentrated lightening in a gel tablet that explodes inside you worse than Pop Rocks and  Coke. Think Mentos and a soda bottle. Dear Lord, my night is going to look like an episode of MythBusters isn’t it?

Then, to top it off.. tomorrow morning at 8am I get to chug yet another bottle of “Draino for your Colon”, 8oz of a CHOICE clear liquid and TWO MORE Dulcolax tablets.

After THAT breakfast of Exploding Bowels Champions I will be NPO- Nil Per Os, or in English, nothing by mouth. Nil Per Os is a Latin medical term that to me, makes me think of nipples. Yeah, I know “You would, Heather… you would…” ::eye roll::

I will arrive for my scope at 1pm, no doubt walking like I just rode bare assed on an epileptic horse for 12 hours, wearing comfortable, loose fitting sweats to hide the bulge from the Depends and a look on my face that could be construed as lost or confused, possible both, but is really just the face of a woman who just flushed her left lung down the toilet, not 5 minutes earlier.

Then I get to wait, for about an hour, in a waiting room, full of other people who are like me, ready to kill the next person that says “Hey, How’s it going?” because although you cant, you REALLY want to answer with

How’s it going? HOW’S IT GOING??? IT WONT FUCKING STOP GOING! THAT’S HOW ITS GOING!!!!!”

And after the last 24 hours, its really won’t be social etiquette that stops you from answering that way but the fact that if you exert that much pressure to raise your voice, there will be a “Clean up in Aisle 5, Irv!” Aisle 5 meaning, yes, your pants.

And while you wait and pray the cork you stuffed in your ass doesn’t dislodge, you watch the door where all the patients finished with their procedures exit. Are they limping? Sobbing gently into tissues? Possibly even being carried out by paramedics?

And then..it will happen. My name will get called. I will kiss Joe goodbye then wave weakly as a nurse escorts me into the door that ironically reads “EXIT ONLY”.

Yes, THIS is exactly how my brain works. Scary isn’t it?

live, love and laugh, at least until the propafol wears off!


Jordyn came home from school yesterday and said, all excited and exuberant, “MOM!” So with matched excitement and exuberance I replied
“WHAT!?” She laughs and says she has to interview me about traditions. What sort of traditions do we have, when did they start..how did they start, etc etc. So, me, knowing full well that this wacked out family is so chock full of traditions that this homework would be a no-brainer. Oy… how wrong was I…

Since Joe and I created most of the traditions, we know them quite well. So I figured it would be nice to see what the kids think of when they hear the word “tradition”. So, once we got over the argument “But Im supposed to ask YOU about our traditions” from Jordyn and she finally realized I was just trying to see what her view of traditions were and she was game.

“OK… hmmmm” she pontificated… “favorite holiday tradition… Oh my God! HIDE THE PICKLE!”

Yes, its ok. you can spit out your coffee to, because I sure as hell did….

“um…WHAT?”

“Yeah! You know! The pickle ornament! You hide it and whoever finds it Christmas morning gets an extra present!”Yes, that is OUR pickle!

I know, Whew…right?

This German tradition of “hiding the pickle” is not made up. And its not pervy either, you freaks. Its real. But our coming across the tradition is not so traditional, since the only thing German about us is our affinity for sauerkraut and bratwurst. My kids LOVE pickles, especially TylerLee… While shopping for all new Christmas stuff in 1999 after we lost it all in a fire a week earlier, I came across a pickle ornament and thought instantly “TYLER LEE!”. We were living in the Residence Inn after our house fire, and one of Kylies nurses saw the pickle on the tree and asked us if we too, were German. Um.. with the last name of Monica…. I think not. She then told us the story. St Nicholas is involved, presents, and the pickle.. or to be exact. the HIDING of THE pickle. So, the tradition was born.

So, after I recovered from the coffee out my nostrils, tear ducts and every other orifice it found its way out of, I explained to Jordyn that MAYBE… just MAYYYYBEEEEE her teacher would be a little… um…. perplexed at the initial title of that particular Monica Family Tradition…

The next thing that popped into her mind was Elf on the Shelf. And to be honest… this was the first year we ever had one. How on EARTH, did I get thru having ten kids and never once hearing of Elf on the Shelf until NOW? Well, let me tell you, I plan on making up for lost time because that Elf…. well..lets just say in just a week he has been places no man (or elf) has ever been, and survived. Inside our shoe bench…Jordyn and Kasey’s closet, Charlie’s backpack…. I have found him perched on a toilet. He has been seen inappropriately touching himself and the Fiber Optic Christmas Angel on the mantle. Heck, upon discovery of an image of a scantily clad female on my laptop, the blame was placed on “that creepy elf.” Somehow I am not sure my children are “getting” the point of the Elf on the Shelf. Or maybe that’s just what I get for not discovering it until they were teenagers. But, alas, that poor Elf better re-up its hazard insurance with the North Pole and check with its Union Rep Elf to make sure they have a good lawyer on the books, because I’m pretty sure that Angel is going to file charges.

So Jordyn is discussing our new found friend Elf and how he is a tradition, (to which I tell her he is not YET a tradition to us) and I ask, “by the way…where is he?” After a little searching… we found him. Elf on the Shelf, was on the top shelf in the kitchen, lounging on the top shelf tequila….oh my.

Elf on the Shelf, on the Top Shelf, Top Shelf.

Elf on the Top Shelf, Top Shelf….

Looking back on the Elf’s brief journey in our house thus far, I’m thinking its not an apropos example of tradition fit for a school paper.

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that Elf looks pretty damn happy doesn’t he????

In case you were wondering, I think she finally settled on

1.) “Decorating the tree by the fire place while we all drink hot cocoa”

(I had to remind her to leave out that mom and dad get “grown up” white hot cocoa, a holiday recipe to be shared on this blog SOON!)

2.) Family Fun Night.

Both mostly safe and innocuous traditions.

I think.

Live, love and laugh…always, my friends.

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