Small Comforts

I call this piece "Love Note and Key Lime Merengue Pie".

I could also call it, "Things that are currently making me feel better after seeing that this:




is the best house I can afford, if I'm lucky and can even manage to get a loan at all."


By the way, that's fake brick in the kitchen there. Wallpaper brick.

(Tomorrow I'll be grateful that I this is what I can afford to buy and not some shack in Africa, but today, people, today I wallow in self-pity.)

In Case You Were Wondering...

My monkey collected over 200 items for the local food pantry at his birthday party on Sunday. And by over 200, I mean 201. That's the final count.

And the grand total of tiny little action figures that will be left on his floor and stepped on by his mother in the middle of the night, games that will break after a week, and trinkets with one hundred pieces that don't really look like they belong to the toy but CAME IN THE BOX SO THEY MUST DO SOMETHING, DAMN IT!!! is a whopping zero.

The number of nervous breakdowns I've had since the party because all the little toys and packaging is laying all over my house plus the number of temper tantrums the kid has thrown because THIS TOY DOESN'T DO WHAT IT'S SUPPOSED TO! also equals zero.

Life is good.

Pieces Of You

Dear Jacquai,

Today is your 7th birthday. Do you want to know how that makes me feel? Do you?

Tired. Amazed. Exhausted. In love. Famished. Proud.

Mostly proud. More than anything else, I'm proud to have such an amazing kid.

It's been a stressful 8 months or so for us. I took your daddy away from you back in October and as hard as you've been trying to understand, I know how confusing and unfair it's been for you. I tried to explain things to you but unfortunately "You're daddy's a first rate fuck up who doesn't know a thing about parenting and is so selfish that he doesn't deserve to kiss the ground you walk on" just didn't seem to cover it all.

But then he took me to court. Finally. And that right there son, was so refreshing, exciting, and joyous to me- to be taken to court by your father for joint custody and visitation. Because more than anything else, it means that he gives a fuck.

So we went this week and with the agreement that I got him to sign, he's going to be spending a lot more time with you and more quality time at that, time that you two can be together without you having to constantly compete for his attention with his girlfriend, her daughters and his other two kids, and the president of the United States, and Janet Jackson, and whoever else it is he insists on having there every time he takes you. Now, for at least 2 hours a week, you are going to have your daddy all to yourself. And now you're going to know when he's coming and going, and he can't just take you when he wants to show you off and leave you with a lady you barely know, he's going to have to be a parent now. He's going to have to show up. He's going to have to be a man.

And I know that maybe some of the things I insisted on and the measures that I took to get these things for you seemed a bit unnecessary and even a little selfish. But in my heart of hearts, I hope that the sacrifice of a few months apart will allow for a better relationship with your daddy in the long run. I hope that you guys are able to find a closeness and bond that you never would have been able to achieve with the way your relationship was going before. I hope that he can teach you how to be a good man and father so that someday you can be one too. I really hope things work out with you guys this time because if he hurts you again, I'm going to have to kill him.

But back to you turning 7. This is going to be the year that challenges me as a mother more than any other year has. From the day you were born, I've had this terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen to you when you were 7, that somehow I would lose you. And I've tried to ignore this feeling, deny it, push it back, but honey, it's there and it's strong. And I'm sorry that this whole letter has had a pretty negative vibe to it, but someday, you're going to look back on your seventh year, and all you'll be able to remember of it is you mother. Attached to your hip at all times. Your mother. Every time you turn around. Your mother. Always there. And I want you to understand why. Understand that this fear that I have of anything happening to you is so crippling that I couldn't help myself from hovering over you constantly, following you around, making you get down from high branches and yelling at you for hanging upside down from the swing. Because I'd rather die a million painful deaths than lose you.

You. Who is so sweet that he agreed that instead of presents, it would be nice to collect canned goods for the local food pantry at his birthday party this year. You. Who composed and recited an eight minute opera about how much you love your mother the other day. You. My little caramel boy. You.

You.

Happy birthday Mookie.

Love,

Momma

My Little Caveman

Presently my kid is outside trying to make a fire by rubbing two sticks together.

"Okay, well just be careful" was all I could think to say when he informed me of his plans.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that with the thunderstorms the other night, there's probably not a piece of wood from here to Georgia dry enough to make a fire out of. Not like that would stop him anyways.

Why My Group Of 7 Year Old Boys Is Better Than Your Group Of 7 Year Old Boys

When I ask my team, "who's wearing a cup today", half of them look at me like they have no idea what I'm talking about, even though on at least three occasions, I've had to explain with much embarrassment, that "it's the thing that protects your penis. You have to be wearing a cup to play catcher's position so I need to know. Are your penises protected today? "

And the other half, who do know what I'm talking about and have protected their penises today, choose to, instead of simply raising their hands, reach down and start knocking AS HARD AS THEY CAN on their crotches so I can be absolutely sure that I can put them in the catcher's position without the fear that in 20 years their mothers will be suing me over their lack of grandchildren.

Now that's class.

The Coolest Monkey On The Block

"Look. That's my website. I have a website."

"I know. I don't."

"That makes me cooler than you."

"Yeah well, I'm a monkey. So that makes me cooler than you."

Touché, my son. Touché.

Big Momma Recommends 1

"Big Momma"- that still makes me laugh, and also kind of cringe every time I call myself that. I decided a long time ago that when I'm a grandmother, I want all the children in my life to call me "Big Momma" or "Big Ma" like we used to call my neighbor growing up. She was about 300 lbs., the most yummy chocolaty brown color, and had the coolest gray streak that highlighted the rest of her jet black hair. Also, she made the best collard greens and macaroni and cheese I've ever eaten. My mouth still waters when I think about them.

When I shared this dream with Man-Friend, he suggested that I might need to gain some weight first. Also I might want to gain some pigment in my skin. Oh yeah, and learn how to cook. Anything. But never one for being deterred from my dreams, I decided I'd be Big Momma anyways. And since I'm skipping all the other crucial parts of being a Big Momma, there's no reason to wait for the grandmother part either.

The end.

Things that have made me laugh this week:

Corporate Cuddling ala Ms. Terry

Anal With A Man? It's True ala Ms. Fertile

and THIS marriage wisdom gem also courtesy of Ms. Fertile.


Go to these pages, enjoy their contents, and have a great weekend!

Point Well Taken

Dear Sophie, The Cat-

I now understand that a live rodent in the house is much better than a dead rodent that has been left to decay under the refrigerator for several days. You have made your point and a very good one at that.

And yes, I apologize for complaining about you and your neurotic habits to the Internet. I vow never to sell you to the Chinese food restaurant down the road like Man-friend suggested, so you can stop hiding under the bed now.


Love,

Momma

P.S. The cat door is officially closed for the summer.

Darwin's Theories In Practice

"Is that a cold sore?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well what is it?"

"That's what happens when you try to use cream hair removers to get rid of your girl mustache."

"Why the hell'd you do that?"

"I thought it'd be less painful than waxing."

"Was it?"

"It burned through my skin and made me bleed. It's been three days and I still can't move my lips."

"So no?"

"No."

Saturday

7:45 a.m.- Awake, bright and early, despite the fact that there's no school today.

8:00 a.m.- Kid asks if he can have three waffles instead of two because there's three left in the pack and he doesn't want to have to eat just one tomorrow.

8:00 and 30 seconds a.m.- I consider his reasoning but then tell him no, he can only have two waffles because only two waffles fit in the toaster. I consider his acceptance of my shoddy reasoning a parenting victory.

8:05 a.m.- He eats one bite of one waffle, decides he feels sick and can't eat anymore.

8:30 a.m.- Kid is still feeling sick. I get worried that he may have caught the strep throat that I had last week and if we don't take care of it, I will be single handedly responsible for the illness of all children everywhere. Forever.

10:00 a.m.- Take kid to doctor's office. Pay $30 for them to tell me that he's fine.

12:00 p.m.- Baseball game. Only 8 kids show up from our team.

12:29 p.m.- My kid throws up in the outfield.

12:31 p.m.- I call doctor's office and demand my $30 back.

12:32 p.m.- They refuse. Ball, hit by one of my players, smacks me in back of head.

12:33 p.m.- Give team the classic "Try not to hit your coach with the ball while she's on the phone with the doctor's office instead of coaching the game" lecture. They've heard it before. They roll their eyes.

1:00 p.m.- Game over, take sick kid home. Let him watch Harry Potter and forget that you told him he had to clean his room today. Kid vows to be sick more often.

5:49 p.m.- Kid falls asleep three hours earlier than normal.

10:30 p.m.- Bedtime for me. Since he's sick, I'll let the kid sleep with me tonight, but first I wake him up and take him to the bathroom so he doesn't pee all over my bed.

10:31 p.m.- Instead of peeing in my bed, kid throws up in it. Day ends in vomit. All in all, a very typical Saturday.