joeyfullystated

I lived through Bubba bein eight. If you have had an eight year old, you may recall. YMMV. If you know parents whose children are eight, you should probably do a kindness for them. They need it. Eight is a terrible age. Eight is the age children realize they know everything and regardless of their age, adults don’t know anything. They actually,  literally say “Literally” “Actually” and “Whatever” all the time or whatever.

All summer long, patrons of the pool told Sassy “Never have children.” The first time it happened, she told me, “This woman yelled at her kid and then looked at me, and said, ‘Never have children’ and I oop!”
“Was he eight?” I asked.
“Yeah, probably.”
“Mhm.”
At eight, Bubba engaged me in psychological warfare every damn day. Daily deliberate defiance, constant debate, unrelenting attempts to negotiate. I prayed and I prayed. I’d wake up in the morning, all tra-la-la, today is a new day, tra-la-la and then by 8am, I’d wave to him as he boarded the school bus and I’d mumble, “Good riddance.” God Bless his second grade teacher, Mrs. Roth. God Bless all the second grade teachers.
And living through Bubba being eight is how I know I can live through two more weeks of him living on my couch, cause this is better.
I love him dearly, but he’s on my couch. Now. Later. All. The. Time.

Lemme be clear, it’s not like he’s doin anything wrong, he’s just THERE.

At this point, I’m not sure who could be on my couch this long without disruption. I mean, after eight weeks, even Winnie-the-Pooh would annoy me.

“The couch smells like bear. Pots of honey fuckin everywhere. Sticky, icky, eww! Honey pots all over the coffee table and the dining table and on my kitchen counter, takin up the refrigerator, spillin out on every surface of the bathroom! I can’t hear myself Think! Think! Think! because you’re always over there exclaiming, Oh Bother! All we do is talk about Heffalumps and Woozles and I cannot possibly endure another game of Poohsticks and for the love of thistle, put some pants on! Do you hear Tigger calling for you? I think I hear Tigger calling for you!”

Sometimes the smallest things grow up to be really big and tall and live on your couch.

In case you’re curious, at eight, in addition to literally actually whatevering all the time, all my girls fully embraced their inner bitches and got smart with me. I, like my own mother, had grown into my breeches and had the good fortune of being an older, smarter bitch and that shit did not play.

But the boy one? So hard. So hard for Joeys. I know as parents we don’t always know what we’re doing, but I’m tellin you…

Happy Friday Everyone! 

I am having a weird summer. I had mono one summer. This one’s better than that one. It’s a strange time in my life. It’s mostly not about me, which is abundantly clear to me, and which is as it should be, roots and wings and fledglings and all that, but they’re called growing pains because ow.

Let me tell you the best medicine for my growing pains — sleep, ice cream, cocktails, and what True calls Dippy Fings. Any fing you can dip into another fing to make the first fing flavored. Chips and salsa, bread and soup, fries and chetchup, pita and hummus, apples and peanut butter — Dippy Fuckin Fings. I’m pretty sure those are also the best remedies for the menopause. You know what women don’t need during menopause? Being subjected to the mood swings of young women.

People comment on how loving and fun we are around here, and we are, but there’s been a lot of tension in the house lately. Sibling rivalry or someshit. There was a screaming fight about cake. Passive-aggressive squawking about television usage and dishwashing. I’ll be away from it all, getting texts like, “Don’t tell Mottern1, but …. ” and “Will you please speak to Mottern3 about her….” and people are all sarcastic and snippy and avoidant. Three is an unhappy number of siblings, cause Tag Teams.

I don’t spend much time on my sofa. It’s in the boy’s room. He doesn’t have another room. Because he’s twenty-fucking-six.

Remember how in March he had to go in and out of hospital and they’d partially mend him and pass him on to the next better hospital? Well, praise be to puppies, we live in the city proper and the boy went to one of our best hospitals with one of the nation’s best surgeons and they fixed him right up on the first shot and he does not have to endure a more invasive worst-case-scenario procedure. He even recovered faster.

No offense to people who enjoy rural living, but have y’all thought about maintaining your body beyond the fresh air and scenic hiking? As my husband put it, “Redneck General” : not an optimal medical facility. So, on day three of recovery, when Bubba no longer needed his pain meds, I said, “Oh good, does that mean they don’t need to live on my coffee table anymore?” He smirked and asked me, “Where do you want me to put them?” and I said, “In your apartment.” He smirked again, but he’s looking at apartments.

I know somewhere there’s someone thinkin I’m not as supportive and compassionate as I should be. Anyone who thinks they have more support and compassion to offer, more clean surfaces they’d like cluttered, well, they can hit that Contact Me section and submit an application. It takes a village, you know. I joke. You can’t have him, he’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I am tremendously proud. You can’t tell, mea culpa.

We had a cold front. We slept with the windows open. It was DIVINE. Still, my hair is like a Chinese finger trap, and other proof it’s summer.

 

Work is good. I’m almost through a momentous pile of rusting projects left by predecessors. I have one more struggle of this sort. From where I sit, my metal’s all shiny and hot. I like this metaphor. I’m a blacksmith. I forge swords. Mentor wields them. Haha, occasionally I wield a lil bit, but then I run back to her quick, sometimes like, “Didja see me? Didja see me?!?” and other times, like, “Oh dang! Cover me!”
TGIF/DMCV

The Mister and I are feeling old and tired. He’s old and I’m tired. Still, every weekend is a holiday and we sit around smugly enjoying the chaos.

Happy Friday Everyone!