You had one of those Days? I have one of those Lives......

I was raised in San Francisco.
When I was growing up, my parents had cocktail hour , they passed around joints and listened to Brazil 66.
My dad dropped an occasional hit of acid and hung a posters that said fuck the draft.

Before I was born, he painted every room in our first house a different color while flying on LSD.
He also had a perm and wore hawaiin shirts with thongs.
He drove a lime green 1969 porshe.

My mom had long dark hair parted down the middle and rich brown eyes, she liked to drink vodka with soda and a twist of lime, and she smoked benson and hedges lights 100's.
She wrapped my dad's porshe around a tree one night.

When we were teenagers,
My mom told us to drink at home if we were going to drink at all......I mean why take the chance?
My brother grew pot in my closet with tinfoil and hallogen lights.
Never mind that my high school uniform reeked of skunk.

He was an  innovative guy. He used to microwave the leaves from  the pot plants and we rolled joints and  smoked them in the kitchen on friday nights.
"waste not, want not!" my  mom would say.

My mom would sometimes pick me up from the 10pm movie with wine on her breath, or even a "traveler" in the car.

Needless to say, I grew up in an environment where drinking was accepted, not rejected.
Meanwhile, my curfew was 11pm until I turned 18, but I could smoke and drink at home.
Mixed messages sent me to therapy for a long time.....

We had a french exchange student named Christian who lived with us for a while.
He helped me with my french homework and made good crepes.

We also had a long lost cousin who lived with us, Bruce.
He was from Alaska and he had a ten foot boa.
We used to feed the boa live mice.
They would squeal and then sit like golf balls, slowly sliding down his throat.
Discovery channel shit.

I had a pet rat named Egg Nog and I loved her.
One night, my brother blew an enormous cloud of pot smoke in her face and killed her.
He blamed it on our dog.
I cried and cried.
My mom helped me bury her the next day.
I wrapped her  in my pink Benetton sweater and put her in a shoe box.
We dug a small hole in the back yard, and buried her next to a tree.
I cried more.

We also had 2 dogs, black labs, Tasha and Stormy .
Tasha was blind in her left eye, it had blue specks in it  and she ran around in circles a lot.
Tasha had a brother, Hawkins, but he was totally blind, and got hit by a car.
Stormy was our other dog, she was so sweet, she couldn't have hurt a fly, much less my pet rat.

We  also had a  green parrot named Daffy.
My brother taught him how to talk .
He would sit on my mom's shoulder and occasionally say "Hello.", or "Fuck You."
My mom sat at the oak wood kitchen table with a vodka soda every evening at about 6pm to  chat with her best friend.
There would be bird shit all over her shoulders by the end of her converstaion.

My mom drove a station wagon, the kind with the wooden panels, even in the 80's.
It had the kind of radio with knobs and plastic squares that you punched with your middle finger to change the station.
There were white t-shirts on the driver and passenger seat.
It smelled like dogs, cigarettes, and  an occasional christmas tree.

She had a bumper sticker that said, "you had one of those days? I have one of those lives."
And she really did have One of those lives.

Her mom died in a fire while smoking and drinking milk with whiskey.
She fell asleep and her mattress combusted.
We lived down the block from her, so the night it happened, we were just a dozen houses away.
My dad was a fireman at the time, he went to save her and she was already dead.

So many tragedies, perhaps not appropriate even for this blog.
Oh, not to worry, I'll end up sharing them with you.


I have written some haiku poetry about  my experiences as a child, so I thought this would be a good time to share one with you.

DAD, IM TRYING TO LOVE YOU

Cocaine up his nose
bottle under the front seat
dad you passed our house

My Meeting with The Master

(by Stacie)

It was a  steamy Saturday morning in Atlanta.
My husband had been out of town for more than a week.
I think I was going off the deep end, pretending like everything was fine.

Both kids desperately needed a hair cut.
It was also an activity, something to do, that made me feel like I was  doing my part to keep my kids looking somewhat civilized.
 Although, Emma was wearing a snow white dress with a huge rip in the butt, and Jaxson's diaper was duct taped (purple), and there was a huge dirt stain on the butt of his plaid shorts.

I looked into the window of Great Clips and the line was too too long.
Getting a  hair cut at the end of a half an hour line  is no bribe for a 2 year old and a 4 year old.

Then I saw a sandwich sign on the sidewalk to my right:
"Faith Barbershop"

Why not? I thought, let's go in there, how different can it really be?

I'm almost sure we were the first white customers they had ever had.
The '20 somethings' waiting in the front seats, all looked at us like we were purple smurfs.
Maybe they thought we were white martians visiting their barber shop.
After all, they were regulars.
I didn't care.
"how can I help you darlin?" the friendly barber said. "I'm L.J."
 Three black guys turned their heads and looked at us like , are you sure you know you're in a barber shop white lady? 

"They need a cut, both of em'" I replied.

He started with Emma, it took him about 15 minutes just to comb it out and sprayed it with water.
First  lesson, combing, not brushing. (I didn't think of that) No brush? No, there were no brushes.
It really wasn't that snarled. I swear.
I don't know what he was doing.
He bragged  to me, " I been cutting white hair for 20 years, a lot of black people don't know what they're doin', but I do."
First RED FLAG.
Bragging = Bullshit.

He was nice though, and who can screw up a kid's haircut?
More will be revealed.

Emma did fine for a little while, but then she started to get antsy, and  a little scared of what was happening to her hair. I think it was the combing.
I assured her it wouldn't be much longer.
Then, the tears started. She looked at me with that  desperate glimmer in her eye, Save me mommy, save me.
I didn't really want to make a big deal, so I assured her again, it wouldn't be long.
She was not assured, she cried more. (pretty normal for Emma.)

L.J. called me over and whispered to me, "your daughter, she's special, she feel the devil in that guy over there, so she's crying."
He was very sure his intuition about Emma was strong and right.
The man in the chair across from her did look a little different.
He had long jerry curls and a gold front tooth and he was tapping his feet to the beat of the music.
He had a very mean look to his eyes, like he had hate inside that he wanted to share with anyone who'd make eye contact.
I felt it, but I think Emma was just upset about the hair cut.
I was waiting for Emma to ask me out loud about his gold tooth but she didn't.
That would've really topped it off.

I was sure her tears were of  impatience and fear of L.J's comb, not the devil with the gold tooth.

I just made him think he was an intuitive genius.
"yes, she is special." I responded.
"I can't stand that guy." L.J. Said. "And she felt it, she felt it too."
I'm thinking to myself, really? It has NOTHING to do with the hour long
comb out, I mean "hair cut" you just gave her.
It's that guy, with the shitty attitude's fault.


Almost an hour later, her hair was cut. It looked exactly the same. what haircut?
Okay, the bangs were a little shorter, and it was combed like it had never been combed before.

Now it was Jaxson's turn.
He had already been waiting for his sister, so you can imagine his mood.
I eyed the place for a lollipop, anything to stick in his mouth.

I asked around, "Does anyone have a lollipop?"
The Devil with the gold tooth  looked at me and grunted,"No."

But then a nice lady at another barber chair pulled a stale one out of her drawer.
"Thank you!" I said with enthusiasm, like she was giving me gold.
It was yellow and flat, and stuck to the wrapper, it was so stale.

Jaxson sat in the chair and looked at me with that look- "What the fuck is happening mom???!"
I gave him the lollipop and he mellowed out.
Then, of course Emma started whining about how she
wanted one too. If she weren't a 4 year old, I could have said, "you don't want one, they're stale!"

Jaxson cried a little, sucked his lollipop, cried a little more, and  never took his eyes off L.J.'s scissors.

Okay,  less than ten minutes later, his hair was cut.
Kind of like how when you  chop celery and there are all those little wiry stray green things on each piece.  It was chopped,  and uneven.
Kind of like a bowl cut with layers.
Oh well, he's only two.

Just like my mother used to say to me when I'd be in a pool of tears over a bad  hair cut.
"It'll grow back."
Yeah, no shit sherlock.

L.J graciously told me to come back anytime.
"Sure, " I smiled, literally lying through my teeth.

Then, for the best part, he gave me his card.
It said L.J. Master Cosmetologist.

Oh Cave Boy- The Places you Go.

(by Stacie)
My son stood up in the bath tub the other night peeing and smiling with glee.
I thought he'd shed a tear of joy,  he was so damn happy with himself.

"MOMMY!!! I peed!  Mommy! I Peed! I peed!" he was filled with pride.

Okay, so peeing standing up is an accomplishment?
Okay. Not so sure how to react.
Would a new age advisor tell me to praise him so his self esteem isn't connected to his penis?
Or vice- versa?

This may have been the first prideful moment of his two- year old life.
As for myself, I haven't found the words for the kind of moment it was, aside from, well, disappointing in a funny way.
Also, relieved it wasn't poop, since he does have a history of  pooping in all parts of his world.
Let me tell you, shit in the tub is no picnic.
 It doesn't float, if you know what I mean.

Having a boy has been an eye opening experience in truly seeing the differences between males and females.
 I thought I knew a whole lot before I had him.
Truly, existing with a "boy''s" mind can be so simple, it's mind blowing.

His new favorite toy is a turkey baster which he insists on taking with him to school .
It was actually my mom's from the 70's, with a yellow top and lots of scratches on the plastic part.
It has spurted lots of juice and basted a lot of turkeys.

He nonchalantly walked into his pre-school class with it in hand.
The teachers just looked at me with that "okaaaay" look when he came in, holding it like it was normal.
He looked at them like "What the fuck are you staring at?" " This happens to be my favorite toy."

As the day progressed it became a rocket and a megaphone all in the same hour.
Not as simple as I thought.

When I pick him up from school I always ask the same question. " How was school?"
No answer. He just walks steadily to the car in his black, fake, suede vans.
"Milk mommy?"
When we get into the car.  I make another attempt,"Did you have fun at school today?"
He grunts, drinking his milk, and looks out the window.
Hm, I think to myself, is he ever going to tell me about school?
Probably not.
I couldn't get my daughter to stop talking after school.
Amazing.

We go to the park most afternoons.
He is usually holding a stick and making grunting noises or just violently slamming it against something, anything.
 He also likes to bolt like a horse.
One minute, I'll be enjoying the moment, the next , I'll be in a panic looking for him, thinking to myself, I'm never fucking taking him to the park again! (yeah, like that's not an empty threat.)

I kept hearing boisterous honking, over and over again, "HONK, HONK, HONK..."
(I thought to myself, give it a rest asshole.)

Seconds later..............
I turned my head and there he was, my son, standing in the middle of the street with two cars stopped in front of him, honking loudly, wondering, where is this kids dumb shit for a mother?

Oh there I was, running frantically to retrieve him.
I will never forget holding him in my arms and just breaking down, as I ran back to the park.

Literally, I cried out loud like I was alone, in front of everyone.
I have never made such an emotional scene in public.
Not even in my drunken hoe bag days.

I looked around at the moms and they all had so much love in their eyes.
They understood why I freaked out.
There were no words exchanged.
It was such a close call, I think they were stunned too.

We all stood there next to the green and blue monkey bars, watching
our little boys, un- phased, running around with sticks, grunting.

They knew the love I felt.
It was their love too.

They all love their  peeing, pooping, stick and rock throwing little cave boys as much as I do.

Suckers for Soccer

Emma started soccer last month.
She said she wanted to play and my husband was thrilled.
I was suspicious from the beginning, thinking she just wanted to wear the uniform. But I hoped it was just the judgmental voice in my head that is out to ruin shit, so I carried on and encouraged.

The first practice was so new and exciting and fun. Emma could not wait to go. She LOVED her new uniform, especially the number 11 on her back. Her dad took her to get the entire garb. She started wearing it around the house, shin guards and all.

We arrived at the field at 6pm, my two year old in tow.
He was more excited than Emma, acres and acres of grass, hundreds of sticks and dirt everywhere.

I forgot a blanket, so we sat on the itchy grass and got up and down, up and down, up and down.
Emma played, or kicked a soccer ball, and ran back and forth with other 4 year old mental patients. I don't think you really call it playing.

My son was like her shadow, running behind her and the line of kids, everywhere they went. The coach was nice about Jaxson pretending to be on the team, but it was only the first practice.
Little did he know, he would later run into a real game and almost tear down the netted goalie.

The first practice, the second practice, all went well. Fun for both kids.
Mostly sweaty and stressful for me, aside from interrupted conversation with a few moms I like, it was a long hour.
Probably because Jaxson thought he was part of various teams, when in fact, it wasn't even soccer practice for him.

So the big game was coming soon. Conveniently, my husband had to be out of town. We were both disappointed for very different reasons.

I still, to this day cannot tell you who won Emma's game.

She cried the second her feet hit the field. She wanted me to come with her everywhere. I tried to explain to her that that was just not possible.
Emma being Emma would not accept that reality. She dramatically tried to drag me out on the field with her team. "Mommy, I want you to come with me.....come with me, pleeeeeaaaaasssse come with me!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Then I would say something rational, none of which penetrated.
I mean come on, why would it?

Then she had to pee, and Jaxson decided to take a big dump two minutes before the game started.
So, I had her crying to pee, and him needing to be changed, and no husband, and I have had to pee for an hour. What's gonna happen if I pee my pants?

It got worse. After the bathroom escapade sucked up about 10 minutes, we missed the beginning of the game and Emma barley played.
Emma was still crying, now blaming the team for being mean.
I threw out some More fake, calm, rational words of which she didn't listen to. Inside, I was just looking forward to bedtime.

Jaxson was running into the game while they were playing, and at one point he was running in circles inside of the goalie, about to tackle the net, so I grabbed him out, while Emma was hanging on one arm.
Meanwhile, the 20 ounces of milk in my bag spilled, so my phone, my keys and my wallet were swimming in a sea of milk. I had no way to clean it up, so I just used my shirt.

Now I smelled like shit, dirt, milk, and probably pee.

Emma was STILL crying.
Naturally, Jaxson started crying because he wanted milk.
I was on the verge myself, but had to politely tell the coach and his wife good bye.
"Thanks for everything!" I lied.

The game was over.
I had no idea who won.
Dare I ask?
Deep down, I could give two shits.
(Oh, and my husband will ask,"who won?"
My Response will be " I DON'T KNOW.)

We had to park like a mile away, so the walk to the car is longer than the game was.
The smell of hot spoiled milk, sun on asphalt, tears, sweaty faces and dirty hair.

"Emma," I said, " You don't have to play if you don't want to. It's okay if you don't like soccer."

She looked at me and sobbed, hair stuck to her face," I like the uniform mommy."

mortified to moved

To say that parenting has humbled me, is an under statement. It’s good to be humbled in life.
Being humbled is no novelty for me anymore; it's really a state of mind.
More than half the time, I have NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING.

I used to say," I was humbled today"- like it was a good experience, or a much needed wake up call.

Now, I am a little sick and tired of being humbled.
Do you find yourself trying to be polite asking to change a shitty diaper? Attempting to leave gracefully after your child has had a tremendous blow out? Or has thrown up all over someone's couch? Or, has said Fuck in front of everyone?

Must it always be a reflection of us? (Emma said, "What the fuck" yesterday)
Hmm, that's what I say.

I feel like parenting is a true spiritual teacher, not to sound new age, but really, who else can make you show your ass like a toddler can.
I pray more.

My mantra used to be-" I am calm and in control". I’m 38 and she’s 3. If that's not humbling, shit, I don't know what is.
My daughter has broken me down. I had to have a mantra to make it through the day. Now she's in school.
My mantra is now used for my 2 year old, that poor second kid, always getting the leftovers.

In Atlanta, we had perfect weather yesterday. It was a gorgeous fall day. I couldn't let my kids stay inside. We walked to the park. It’s 3 blocks away and it only takes us a half an hour.

The park was filled with kids.
Running, screaming, jumping.... all different colors, shapes and sizes. Babies cooing in swings, toddlers sliding, boys galloping with sticks, girls on the see saw.
It was a sea of color, noise, beauty and insanity.

We live in a diverse neighborhood and go to a diverse school. Simply, we live in
Atlanta and I don’t think my four-year sees color, or nationality.

Jaxson, Emma, and a group of screaming kids came barreling down the slide. Jaxson got stuck under some kid’s legs and he was crying loud, I mean loud.

EVERYONE stopped to look. I grabbed him.
He was fine. It just scared him.


Emma starts yelling, “THOSE BLACK PEOPLE, They hurt Jaxson on the slide.
I try to give her “that look” to stop her from saying anything more- Then again, “Mommy, THOSE BLACK PEOPLE……”

“ Emma, Emma”, I try to stop her mid sentence again.

Not again, please! God help me.
I am calm and in control.

“MOMMA I’M trying to tell you, THOSE BLACK PEOPLE!!!!”

Can I run? Can I crawl under the slide and leave her? Pretend she’s not mine?

I was mortified.

Meanwhile, a calm, sweet black girl was standing beside me the entire time.

I had to confront this in front of everyone… what choice did I have?

“Emma, “ I said, “there are people with white skin and black skin and brown skin, we don’t say that out loud, it can hurt someone’s feelings and it’s rude.”
Oh brilliant! I thought to myself, well that sucked.
Another book I’ll have to buy.

Then, to my surprise the sweet girl beside me said, “ Emma, can I tell you a secret?”
“Can you hold my drink for me?”
Emma looked at her sheepishly, ”okay,” she said.
The girl whispered in her ear that she was black and that Emma was white and only the inside of people matters and that black people get upset when you say that….” Trust me.” She said with confidence.
Emma said, “Okay.”

I was speechless.
I said ”Thank you, how old are you?”
She said “Ten.”
“Thank you”, I said again.

I had a huge lump burning in my throat.
I heard it in my mind again,”Ten.”
Tears streamed down my face.
I slowly walked back to the park bench.
What a day.
Well, at least I remembered my sunglasses.

I'm 2 too.

My two- year old son started pre-school today.
A few days ago, in anticipation of this day, I felt sad.

Well, not sad, I'd say sentimental.

This morning, after throwing a match box car at his sister, smearing his banana all over the dining room floor while laughing, and screaming out the window, standing on a dangerous step stool ladder; I was no longer feeling sentimental.

Then it was on with his back pack filled with diapers, thinking woo hoo! One less shitty diaper for me to change today.
BTW, this is not a new back pack, (first sign of second child syndrome). It was his sister's back pack. So, naturally, I took a big sharpie and crossed out her name and replaced it with his name- real classy.
Way to make the first day of school special.
I would have actually cared what the teachers thought when I started emma in preschool. But at this point, I could give a flying fuck.
I think with the second, all bets are off, and I can't imagine what would happen with the third. I Hope I don't find out.

After running after him throughout the house trying to get his shoes and socks on, convincing him we were NOT playing hide and seek, we were almost ready to go.
I also did try to take a picture for his first day, but he ran around the living room yelling NO!NO Pictooore! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
See why I'm so sentimental?

What a crock of shit.
Should I really make him take the picture? No, I'll just take the damn picture of the real moment- Here's my obstinent two year old's first day of school....... Click click.
And no, I'm not posting it in FB with a cute caption about how sad I am.

Now I'll Cut to, the pre-school open house last week. I went to meet the teachers. It was an open house of sorts where you and your child hang out in the class room, pretending like life is grand. You are also asked to fill out a meaningless questionnare, with questions like, "how will we know if your child is upset?" and, "what are your child's favorite foods?"
My answers were: he will scream, cry, or throw a tantrum. He likes milk and mostly throws all his FOOD on the floor.
Oh, and don't worry, I left out the part about how he loves to remove his diaper and then walks around with shit on his hands, and sometimes smears it on a wall.

There were many polite introductions with screaming two year olds who were not sharing trucks and blocks. Everyone was smiling, while trying to manage their small animals/2 year-olds. "Come on sweetie, share with your new friend." Underneath that smile was a tired, worn down mom like myself... excited to be leaving my child with another sorry sac for three hours a day, three days a week.

There is always that chipper mom who "LOVES this age", that I just can't relate to.
Oh, and yes, she was at the open house.
Her son was a genius, not that she said that, but you could just tell by the way he played with his blocks.
"He knows 24 signs!" she said gleefully.
Wow, I thought, 24!I guess you have time to count them.
Don't judge Stacie, don't judge I thought to myself.
Then she said, "He also doesn't really get that upset, he will point or sign for what he needs!" She told the teacher.
Spare me, I thought, he's two years old.... If a two year points at anything, isn't he screaming at the same time?

Okay, my higher self vanished after that comment.

Must be nice, I thought, I guess he's also potty trained and he can fucking read?

"He also speaks two languages," she said.

Last straw.

Wait a second, did she really just say that out loud?
EYE ROLL, and I don't care if she saw me, I live with a 2 year old.
I too have regressed.
I am 2 now too.

Okay, so my two- year old is starting pre-school.