It’s weird. I always try and keep my blogs about my current life and funny. Because, well, generally my life is always a hot mess pretty fucking funny. Let’s face it, the last few years have not been easy on me (or my grey hair for that matter), but you know what, your ex-husband gets engaged to his mistress you realize you are WAY fucking stronger than you ever thought, you get through. You just do…. First and foremost for me, is always my minimuffin tops (shout out to my fellow fat kids)….. They are really my whole heart and soul. They remind me the things I am good at (laundry) and the things I am not (cooking, Bigs told me the other night his dinner smelled like “Beaver food” which brings in the question “You eat fucking beaver food dude?”)….. Anyholla.
I knew, in my heart, I knew I would never be ready for these upcoming weeks, but now, I just have this heaviness in my heart and pit in my stomach (it’s not even because I am hungry, which I always am)….. #peewee is starting school….. Interesting fact, he has actually gone to a “special needs” program for 3 years now. Three fucking years. When he started, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t walk up stairs. Couldn’t even consider walking down stairs. He couldn’t run. Well, now, he doesn’t shut up, he has a candor about him when he speaks that is nothing short of hysterical, does not even consider holding my hand walking up stairs, and actually runs (although, he sort of looks like a cartoon character when he does, still)…..
But here I am, filling out his back to school paperwork, for him to go to a different school than his brother, because as amazing as our town is, they can’t service him with his needs in district…. So, the little puff pastry will go into a class with 15 other kiddos he doesn’t know. He will be “that kid” you know, the one who has his own teacher, because he still can’t write, he can’t hold a pencil, he can’t go to the bathroom alone, he gets confused. He’s scared.
Selfishly, I’m scared. I’m so scared. I’m proud of him that when he was able to run, he no longer had to wear braces on his legs. I’m proud of him that he hardly has to use sign language to speak to me anymore. I’m proud of him that he can try and play with other kids. I’m so scared. I know he’s different. His brother knows he’s different. Deep down inside, I feel it in my heart that even he knows he is different. So I lay awake at night, scared. Scared he will get picked on more than he already does. Scared more people will ask “What’s wrong with him.” (Sidebar, props to me for not cold clocking the bitch outside of Dunks the other day who asked me that, I just said “Him, nothing, you, appears as though quite a bit is.”).
So, as I fill out his paperwork, I wonder questions that no parent should ever have to wonder. Will he be able to go on field trips? Will he go to gym class? Will music class be too loud for him? Will someone help him carry his pizza to his desk on pizza day? How am I going to get him to understand that his beloved “guys” can’t go to this school, and that there is no “school boo” to snuggle if he gets scared? What will happen if he needs me, but doesn’t know how to say it? Mostly, what happens when he gets picked on? Because he already does. And I know he will. Just because he is different. He doesn’t love any less, he likes the same things as other 5 year old boys, but he is different. And different isn’t “cool.” What will happen now? What will happen in one year, or three or five?
So my beloved friends and family, if (when) I am bitchy (ier) than I normally am, it’s just because I am scared.
More often than not, I get emails, texts, etc that are like “Nooooo wayyy does this shit really happen in your life.” Listen, I’d either have to be an idiot or a genius to tell these stories. And I sure as shit am not a genius. So yes, this all happens.
My married friends bitch all the time, “Mr. Wonderful never helps out, he is constantly jerking off, he won’t change a diaper, he is busy hanging up tapestries in his man cave etc.” and know what, I never would have done that did too. Thing is, when times were really tough, I could call the former Mr. Nara and be like “Asshole, help out.” And at least there would be a 20% chance (being generous) that he would. Maybe, I mean, if he didn’t have something else going on, eh, ok, 10%. Well when you are single, that 10%, it’s gone. I use to get so annoyed at people who brought their screaming snot nose kids to the grocery store, and now, well, now I shop online, bad example. But you get it.
However, back to the 10% being gone.
I have had this cold for a solid 539 days now. It finally got to the point that I needed to go to the doctor. She was basically like “There is more snot in you than I have ever seen in anyone before, you are a medical miracle.” “Time for a dose of heavy antibiotics.” Ok, that’s cool. I’m down with drugs getting better.
She calls it into the local pharmacy and I’m all like “Shit, I should get sick more often, I am NAILING this!”
I figure I will give the pharmacy a bit to count out the drugs et all (ever notice it takes like a day to count out those pills, am I the only one who thinks it is weird?). so, off I go to get the minis. We take our standard 45 minutes or so to make it 100 feet to the car, baby brother only ALMOST gets hit by another car one time, but still, I decide I will give the pharmacy even more time (I am so fucking nice, huh).
So, the critters and I decide to go through the car wash. Scratch that. I was too lazy to brush the snow off my car (because remember, we live in MA and it snows straight through July), so we decided to go through the car wash (side bar, that doesn’t work, at all).
We make it through the car wash without anyone opening a window and honest to god, I am like feeling like I am a GOOD FUCKING MOTHER.
We pull into the local pharmacy, and the drive through (because, I am THAT lazy) has at least 11 cars in line. Because I don’t think ANYTHING through, there is not a moment that I think “Oh, it must be busy here.” I just think “OK, let’s go inside, because that will be easy.”
Minis and I load out of the car, and head into said pharmacy, which is fascinating, because I really don’t even like them leaving the house honestly, but, such is life. As we walk into the shit show that is about to be the next 2 hours of my life I realize that it might be slightly busier than I realized. As in, it was a fucking shit show there were people crawling off the god damn walls for their Prilosec. I was waiting for a bar to roll out, strobe lights and “Mr. Boombostic” to start to play and OH MY GOD JUST I JUST REVEAL HOW FUCKING OLD I AM!?!??!?!
Fine, that’s fine. We took our time getting here, there is no question my shit is reat – to – go. Still, even still, we wander back to the pharmacy a little slowly, grabbing the essentials. You know, Sour Cream and Cheddar Ruffles, a Kit Kat, a Reeses, some seltzer and 26 boxes of tissues. OK, we are good!
As we round the corner to the pharmacy, I realize that the line BASICALLY WRAPS AROUND THE STORE but hey, there is no one giving me 10% help, so I need to suck it up and be a good lil soldier (side bar, I would be an absolutely AWFUL soldier) and get my shit so that I don’t end up on day #540 of this cold
It takes almost FOURTY minutes to get to the front of the line, but yet again, because I don’t think jack shit through, I’mmma like “Clearly my drugs will be ready all packaged up with a preeey lil bow.”
Nope. At this point, my minis are playing sword fight with sleeves of saltine crackers that they found and I really don’t care because I can see the finish line. There is a guy SCREAMING at the pharmacy helper (does this every work? And he YELLS “This place fucking sucks” and Imma like “Right, THIS LONG to get a drink at the bar, is BS!”) This crabby old woman, says TO ME (pointing to my sword fighters) “Those kids are acting like animals.” And, because I am a really good mother, I say “I know! I wonder where there parents are! This is awful!” Mini one walks up to me as this is happening and is like “momma” and I am all like “I am NOT your momma.”
So as we make it to the sacred ground (front of the line) the lil gal is like “Oh, tee hee, there is nothing here in that name.”
I cried. I’m not kidding, I cried. And kept her sweet face as she was like “Um, do you mind moving over there.” Pointing to the side, and I look over and realize that is basically where the misfit prescription picker-uppers go.
Back forth, the pharmacist calls the doctor, they chat, mini one falls asleep on the floor (YOU CAN”T MAKE THIS SHIT UP PEOPLE – SEE)…..
So we are now shuffled over to the OTHER side of the pharmacy,
At this point, I am basically leaving a trail of tissues for my kids to find me, kind of like bread crumbs AND IT WORKS! I hear them like “OH, there is another tissue, mommy must be over THERE now.” Listen, gotta make shit fun for these guys when we are on hour like 19 of trying to get a fucking Z pack.
Fast forward, fast forward, I finally get my shit. We go home. And immma all like “Either of you two know how to make dinner, I mean, you are 8 and 5, aren’t you men yet?” cereal for dinner? And hit the couch. I realize I am EXHAUSTED. I send a token SUPER fucking ugly selfie to my Spirit Unicorn and don’t even care that I still have all of my work clothes on, immma gunna rest for five minutes.
FIVE FUCKING MINUTES IS ALL THAT IT TOOK. I hear the mini one saying something about going to go to the bathroom (fine). He still prefers that I wipe his butt (can you blame him? Everyone likes a clean whistle). He comes out telling me something about how he did pee pee on his socks, because his penis was pointing the wrong way, right, ok…. When I hear “GULP GULP GURGLE SPLASH.”
Oh, ok, apparently we are learning to wipe on our own, AND HE FUCKING FLOODED THE BATHROOM.
I dead sprint, ha, that’s funny let’s face it, I slow walk into the bathroom, and realize he used THE toilet paper. Not like SOME, or even A ROLL. I mean he used it all. And, I am one of those people, who likes to keep 4 rolls in the bathroom at all times, because you never know when someone is going to come over and have raging diarrhea and they are NOT going to want to be like “Ah, got more TP?” What can I say, I’m a planner. So there I am, fishing this shit out of the toilet, trying to gently explain “Brother, when you wipe your ding dong, you just need a teenie bit, not four rolls.” (because remember, he still wants me to wipe his butt, this is a simple tinkle). And he’s all like “But, momma, I want to make sure it is BERRY BERRY clean.”