Running Away and Joining The Circus

The circus always freaked me out inside. On the outside I was fine.  “Yay, circus… as long as I can eat peanuts.” But not on the inside. My inside was all “Shit, the damn circus.”

It wasn’t the clowns. Everyone is always bitching about the clowns. I have no beef with clowns. Mimes, yes. Mimes are super freaky. Why are you in a box? Why are you holding a flower but everything else is expressed though gestures and accompanied by music? Yikes. Clowns, whatever. Unless we are talking about the clown from It, and I don’t think we are.

The circus freaked me out for many reasons. The complete “freak show” of it all was a big part of it, and I’m not talking the “bearded lady” or the “tattooed man”… that was never part of the circus I grew up with. Now that I live in Florida that is the crazy shit you see at the fair. I’d never been to a fair in New York. The fair is a completely different post. The freak show part of the circus (for me) was that it was a stage show, not like Shakespeare in the Park or My Fair Lady, those are actual stage shows; but that it had all of these animals and performers looking like they belonged somewhere else. I cannot think of a single thing stranger than seeing an elephant in the same place I have seen a hockey game. That’s just fucking ridiculous. I’m not even a huge animal rights advocate but at 7 years old, when my grandmother took me to the circus, I knew it didn’t fit.

As a Stay-At-Home-Mom I’m with my kids all day, everyday.

ALL DAY, EVERYDAY.

If you’re not a Stay-At-Home-Parent just let that resonate a little bit. Let it marinate in your brain until you feel it. Do you feel it? Good. If you are at home, like me, know this, I FEEL YOU!

On Sunday my husband doesn’t work, and under normal circumstances I usually get some sort of reprieve from my band of merry men. I don’t get mani’s or pedi’s or massages or facials. Usually I just leave the house for an hour. 60 minutes where I don’t have to do shit for anyone else. That is 1 hour for me out of the 168 for everyone else. Boom.

Until recently.

Hubby has been coaching a soccer team and they have had tournaments on Sunday for the last couple weeks.

Today was the first Sunday Hubby had been home in a long while.

I NEEDED A BREAK.

As I grabbed my purse and keys to “go to the store” I said.. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay? I’m gonna take my sweet ass time.” He smiled and nodded as I sprinted out the door like a teenager heading to a kegger.

As I put the key in the ignition I actually thought of just GOING…

Driving… driving away… far, far, away… Going to Key West… Or Miami… or joining the circus.

And that, my friends, THAT, is how batshit fucking crazy these kids can make you. They can drive you to the brink. Screw that, they can push you way beyond the brink. Screw that, I’m at the point where I don’t even recognize the brink. The brink? What brink? The fact that I even considered (just for one hot minute) running away to join the circus (an entity that I’ve always loathed in its entirety) as a happily ever after from my current home life situation says volumes in itself.

Besides, I don’t have nearly enough tattoos.

 

 

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Up Your Mass

This is a story about fate, love, perseverance, genetics… and sweet, sweet ironic bullshit.

A healthy weight and I have never been friends. When I’m super fat (and usually relatively mentally happy) the first words out of people’s mouths are… “What’s wrong?” Then consequently, at times where I’ve been freakishly thin (and mentally miserable) the first words out of people’s mouths are… yup, you guessed it, “What’s wrong?”

People are judgmental.  They are cruel, they are selfish and they usually don’t even realize what they say.  Especially when it comes to a 12-year-old girl, a 21-year-old college graduate, a 30-year-old mother of 1, or a 37-year-old mother of 3.  So I don’t even wonder why I have negative body imagine… I know, straight up know, that’s it’s because the mirror I use everyday is really the attitude of the people I surround myself with.   I’m not one of those bitches who checks her makeup (I rarely put on makeup) or whips out a compact to see if she has stuff in her teeth.  Now that I’m a bit older, I know what’s up, and surround myself with positive people, who make me feel good, more often than they make me feel bad.  Obviously, this doesn’t include my children, whom I have no choice but to cater to their needs.  That I can handle.  None of the wee ones have ever called me a “fat ass bitch”, but they’re still young.

So here’s where the story get’s ironic.

My Hubby had some hardcore dental work a couple of months ago.  I commend him for doing what needed to be done and it just makes him more of a hero in my eyes that he was in crazy pain dealing with our motley crew.  And while his teeth are fabulous now, he had about 2 weeks of bad pain (which lead to eating less) afterwards.

My husband has the metabolism of a hummingbird.  I’ve never known him (in 20 years) to weigh more than 160 pounds.  He’s actually worn the same pants size since we met, extremely opposite from how my weight has fluctuated at least 30 pounds from here to there.

That’s why when I finally noticed his weight loss I was shocked.  Like, over the top, holy shit, floored.  We were changing for an event we had to attend and I saw him shirtless… {OMG, he’s so thin… holocaust thin}.  Of course the first thoughts in my head were that his heavy workload and too many kids was just too much for him.  I felt so guilty that the man I want to spend my life with was burdened.  Ugh, and I burdened him…. It was a very scary, guilty feeling.

When I asked him about it he laughed at my fears…

“Burdened? That’s a laugh.”

I guess I have a marvelous imagination.

He explained that the weight he lost after dental surgery hadn’t come back on easily… or at all.  What kind of bullshit is this?  The dentist could wire my jaw shut for a fucking month and I still wouldn’t lose weight and here is my Hubby trying to put weight back on?  Oh hell no.

So, because I’m not about to be the fat person in this relationship and because I love my husband, I vowed to see this “weight gain thing” through… “I am going to fatten you up if it’s the last thing I do!”

Off I rush to the local vitamin/nutrition store… as I wheel the baby in with his stroller I find a sales clerk…

What do you take when you’re trying to gain weight?

{See gives my body a once over and raises an eyebrow at me}

Not me, I’m not trying to gain weight… Jeez.

I explain to her the whole long story and she sells me a protein powder that’s call… get this… “Up Your Mass”.  The name alone had me in hysterics… proving, once again, that I have the Benny Hill mentality of a 10-year-old boy.  I completely blame Mel Brooks for my sense of humor.

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It’s been 2 weeks since Hubby started with the daily “Up Your Mass” shakes along with homemade lunch (in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Lunchbox) and the usual dinner.

He’s put on 2 pounds.

When the premixed protein powder makes contact with my skin I gain 2 pounds.

It’s just not fair.

I wonder how much it costs to have your jaw wired shut?

Suppertime Confessions of The Babywearer

It’s another night and I’m wearing the baby.

I’m not complaining. Wait, am I complaining?

I really shouldn’t be. I loved “wearing” him for 9 glorious months. It was awesome actually. If every time I strapped this child to my chest I was given a dose of my pregnancy hormones, I’d be just fine. But this isn’t a sci-fi movie. That would be a cool premise though… gotta remember to come back to that.

What pisses me off about this whole “wearing the baby” thing, is that it’s my husbands fault.

NO…. not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Okay, put it back in the gutter, have a dirty thought for me, and now, come back to reality.

It’s my husband’s fault because the baby likes to sleep on his chest. And my hubby, CAN SLEEP ANYWHERE!!! THROUGH ANYTHING!  It’s a gift, and I’m totally jealous.

So, the big boys are at soccer practice with Daddy and I’m wearing a baby. The baby. My baby.  At least I finished making the rigatoni first. It’s super hard to cook while wearing a baby.