Mukkefuck Cafe

the first day fo the rest of my life

I know that since I lost my mind and deleted my entire blog that I lost most of my readers, too. I also know that my last few posts were skeery for those of you who don't know that I am mostly full of shit, most of the time. I am gripey, but once I let my gripes out, I am like a kitten. Without the fur. And the purring. I digress...

Some of the things that I say on here are hard for people to hear...but I think it is good for us to hear about other people's struggles. Perspective is a Good Thing. I am about to go a whole new direction with my blogging. I am going to blog about my attempt at a healthier me. If reading a blog written by a Fat Person about Fat People makes you uncomfortable, well, good. We are all born into this world as itty bitty babies. You and me...we are the same; we just look different on the outside.

Also, we would all be Big, Fat Liars if we said that we blogged just for ourselves. If I were writing these things only for myself, I would definitely NOT be paying for this here blog and posting my thoughts on the internet. We all want to be part of a community, and blogging is one in which I am quite comfortable. Please stick with me as I embark on what will probably be the biggest adventure of my life.

I am kind of flying solo until Tuesday, at which time I will be undergoing a RMR (resting metabolic rate) test. From there, I will have a nutritionist who will help me adjust my eating habits (I am NOT going on a diet) to meet the needs of my body and I will have a fitness trainer who will help me compose a fitness regimen that will help me burn calories and gain strength. I have already taken the first steps, on my own. I am no longer keeping soft drinks in the house. I will still allow myself to drink soda if we go out to eat, but we don't really get to do that very often. I am now consuming between 4-5 litres of water per day. Today is day three of that plan, and I am wondering if/when I can expect to be able to go more than 20 minutes without having to pee, again???

I also have a buddy who has agreed to walk with me, Monday through Friday. We made a pact to keep each other motivated. We started today and walked 8 laps (approximately 2 miles) in 30 minutes. I know that we aren't winning any marathons at that rate, but it's a start;)

I have made the decision NOT to deprive myself of any specific foods. My main focus is going to be to cut down on portion sizes and to incorporate more fresh fruits (which is a challenge for me because I really don't like fruit) and veggies (notsomuch a challenge...I heart veggies:) into my diet. Basically, this is how I see it. Skinny people eat cheese and chocolate and pasta. Their bodies just metabolize these things differently for them than they do for me. It is basically unrealistic to assume that I am going to be able to successfully cut out all of my favorite foods just to shed pounds. My main objective is to change the way my body metabolizes the foods that I do eat. Like I said in my previous post, I don't eat a lot of foods that are bad for me. I just need to kick my fat butt into gear.

Enough of my rambling. If anyone would like to share their own experiences, or is on the same journey, right now...come and walk with me:)

when the fat lady sings

I have a confession to make. I am fat. Not only am I fat, but I am obese. According to the charts, I am actually considered morbidly obese. Doesn't that sound just fucking horrific???

Morbid obesity.

When I  was a kid, my aunts and uncles used to call me spider legs and spaghetti arms. I was a tall, gangly kid. I was a late bloomer, but when I bloomed, I really bloomed. I wasn't a fat young adult, but I was definitely curvy. I was built like Marilyn Monroe. I had perky boobs, a small waist, curvy hips and a big butt. I liked my body, back then. I was physically strong. I rock climbed. I hiked. I felt good and I felt good about the way that Iooked. I managed to say pretty fit during my time On The Road. Then I got pregnant.

I made some huge lifestyle changes after I found out I was going to be a Mom, and I know that some of that contributed to my weight gain, but something metabolically happened to me, as well. I gained forty pounds during my pregnancy, and lost about thirty pounds within a few months of her birth...then they slowly crept back on and I haven't seen a weight below 200 pounds, since then.

I eat a normal, balanced diet. I don't sit and eat a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon for breakfast. I don't have a whole pizza and a 2 litre bottle of Coke for lunch. I don't eat fried foods and really try to limit my intake of sweets. I am not going to kid myself into believing that my diet is perfect, but I think it is good. I have really worked to cut down on the size of my portions and instead of Coke (my one, major vice) I have switched to Coke Zero, iced green tea and I have increased my water intake.

I do not have a regular exercise routine. I am moderately active in that I am raising four kids and maintaining a household of six people, most of whom are seemingly incapable of cleaning up after themselves. I will admit that there are some days where I don't do a damned thing...but those days are relatively few. I also go and walk at the track a couple times a week. I know I should do it more often and I am not even going to bother trying to justify my laziness.

Before That Guy I Married was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, I was seriously pursuing gastric bypass surgery. I knew the risks, but after years of (unsuccessfully) trying to get my weight under control, that seemed to be the right weight loss tool for me. I didn't see it as an easy way out. I saw it as a way to force me into eating less and only eating foods that were good for me. That all changed once TGIM got sick. What if I became one of the few who had long-term ill effects? What if I couldn't physically care for my family, if the need arose?? What if I died???

So here I am, two years later and still just as fat.

I had my annual "well woman" exam last week. As my doctor was putting in the order for some lab work (thyroid, blood sugar, etc.) she asked me if I was interested in being referred to the Wellness Center. I have been here for three and a half years and this is the first time I had ever heard about this! Basically, I will be assigned a nutritionist. They will run tests on me to see how many calories I actually need to consume. They will get me started on an exercise program! For the first time in years, I have a little bit of hope that I might be a healthy weight again, someday.

It is so hard, being a fat person. Have you ever had to ask for an extender because the seatbelt on an airplane won't buckle around your belly? Or stood in line for an hour to ride a roller coaster only to be told you are too large to ride? Or sat on a flimsy-looking chair and prayed that it would hold up under your weight? Most of society looks at me and all they see is a disgusting body. People don't really go out of their way to get to know fat people. Americans are notoriously bad about judging people by their outward appearances. I do not want to lose weight for those people. I want to lose weight so that I will live a long and healthy life and so that I can set that example for my own kids. I will never be a petite size 2. Or 4. Or even a 6 or an 8, and I am cool with that.

My goal isn't to look like I have just walked away from a concentration camp. My goal is to get healthy. And to be able to buy my pants in a regular shop.

I truly believe that we can be healthy at any size and I also think that the whole fat acceptance movement is a good thing. Some of us are just designed to be bigger than others. I just know that in order for me to feel good about myself, I have got to shed about 100 pounds. Wish me luck!

I was the champion of forgive and forget...but I haven't found a way to forgive you, yet

The past 24 hours have been a prime example as to why I should be a hermit.

After the little "discussion" I had with Spideymommy yesterday, I made it clear that I needed my space. I received about 42 e-mails today asking if we could talk, if I was OK, what was wrong. I largely ignored them, but one can only be asked so many times before they just snap, you know??? So I sent an e-mail back, clearly outlining the course of events as I saw them. The root of the issue is basically that I was providing care for their child, not as an employee but as a friend. He wanted to be able to treat me like an employee. (My regular readers might remember me bitching about him wanting to use my meager income as a tax deduction. I made about $2.50 an hour, caring for their kid. Seriously. I was doing them a favor.) If he wanted me to act as an employee rather than a friend, I would have made him sign a contract agreeing to my terms. And I would have charged him about three times as much money.

My fault lies in that I tolerated being treated like the hired help for WAY too long. I enabled him to shirk his responsibilities as a father. Instead of keeping my mouth shut for the better part of a year, just to keep the peace, I should have said something. Right from the beginning. Instead, I let my frustration build for months and months, and yesterday...I snapped. I tried to call him on it in a civilized manner, and he chose to get ugly.

I got an e-mail from him today totally trashing my integrity as a parent.

Now, I have been called many, many things in my life...and most of them are true. I can be a miserable, wretch of a human being. I have a tendency to see the glass as half empty rather than half full. I really and truly AM a bitch. I can live with people thinking these things of me. For those who have earned my loyalty and trust, I have the potential to be a really great friend. I don't mind that my circle of trust really small. Actually, I quite prefer it that way.

What I can't tolerate is someone calling me a bad mother. I have dedicated the past twelve years of my life to raising my kids. We do without many of the "extras" so that I can stay home with them. We don't own our own home. We don't drive nice, new cars. We have never taken a family vacation, but you know what??? My kids haven't spent a single minute of their lives in day care. From the minute our first child was conceived, all we have thought about is what we need to do to help our children grow into kind, generous, productive members of society. I think we have done a pretty good job. Are we perfect??? Not by a long shot. Are we failures??? Not by an even longer shot.

So, for those of you who know me in real life or just through the Internet...you can call me whatever you want...but you had better not call me a bad mother. It is the thing that defines me, and I will not stand by and let anyone try and tear me down.

taking advantage and utter frustration

For those of you who care to actually read what I have to say here, you might remember that I was liberated from my day car gig last month. Well, my replacement fell through and I went ahead and agreed to fill in, as a favor until mid-June, at which time my eldest daughter was going to take over for the summer. (for the record, it is only two days a week and Rowan totally volunteered to do it...she is pretty eager to earn the money to pay for a pair of Doc Martens and a new pair of Adio sneakers)

For the past three weeks, I have been dutifully caring for the little Spidermonkeykoalababy. I should probably mention that we are friends (and neighbors) with Spidey's parents. I volunteered to serve as her doula and was there when he was born. I care for their family very much, but this is about boundries...

So, I open the rolladenthis morning and see the Spideydaddy's car still parked outside. I call over to their house to see if he had the day off or was just running late. I was told that he was called in for this afternoon and that I would have Spidey as per the Regular Schedule. My Spidey Senses started to tingle...

I suppose I should also mention that Spideydaddy works with That Guy I Married. I was feeling a little bit Suspicious given the tendency Spideydaddy has to drop everything and play golf with nary a concern for the person caring for his Darling Spawn. He ditches his wife and kid several times a week to pursue his own endeavors and she tolerates it. I don't agree with that particular dynamic of their relationship, but it is not MY relationship, therefore I choose not to make it my problem. When I DO choose to make it my problem is when it directly affects me...which today...it does.

I made a quick phone call to That Guy I Married to find out if Spideydaddy was, indeed, required to work this afternoon. My suspicions were confirmed. He was not. I confronted Spideymommy about it, and all hell broke loose. Here is a brief synopsis, in two part harmony.

She was angry and hurt that I called behind their backs to find out if Spideydaddy was actually working today.

I was angry that I was being taken advantage of. It was clearly evident that he intended to go off and do his own thing while his wife was at work and his son was with me. I think it was clear who was in the wrong, here.

She was angry and hurt that I didn't seem to want to watch Spidey anymore.

I fucking RESIGNEDfrom watching Spidey...not because I don't care about Spidey, but because I care about my own sanity, more. To put it bluntly, he is spoiled. He is carried on Spideymommy's hip. All. Day. Long. He is allowed to push buttons on their DVD player. He is allowed to play with (and subsequently drop into the toilet) their cell phones. He expresses displeasure at being discliplined, so he is largely undisciplined. I run a pretty tight ship, here. I love my kids and allow them to explore the world in which we live, but within predetermined boundaries. I am OCD. I NEED boundaries. With the Spideyfamily, there ARE no boundaries.

They have been good friends to us and recently helped us out, when we were in a bind. Extreme gratitude was expressed and repayment is being made...that is why the next thing she said to me pushed me right the fuck over the edge.

She thought that since they have been "so good" to us, that I basically didn't have the right assume The Worst, which happened to be The Truth in this instance. Basically, they expected that since we are indebted to them, that we are owned.

I am sorry, but if you are truly a kind and generous soul, you don't expect that those who benefit from your generosity are then enslaved by you. If that were the case, then That Guy I Married and I would be running our own plantation, with an assortment of homeless folk, hippy folk and homelesshippyfolk doing all of the labor. You see, we were both On The Road when we met. All of our personal belongings were on our backs. If we had money in our pockets, and our immediate needs were met, we gave freely. Charity is still something we both feel pretty passionate about. Given our very modest beginnings, money is not really that important to us. If our bills are paid and our basic needs are met, we are content. Anything extra is just that; extra. I guess that's why I don't quite get the mentality of "I scratched your back, so you must scratch mine as often and for as long as I wish". It just doesn't make sense to me.

I am just feeling extremely taken advantage of, right now. The fact that I agreed to keep providing daycare for them was basically a favor, from one friend to another. I am not willing to be their "employee". I am willing to be their friend. They can't see the distinct line between the two, despite the fact that I have etched it out and colored it in with a big, fat, black Sharpie. I refuse to be made to feel guilty over their blatant lack of consideration.

The past year has been one of transition for me. All of my Good and True friends have moved away and I am still exactly where they left me. I think it is time for me to step out of my comfort zone and to move on. I am too much of a sucker to land too many friends who expect nothing more from me than friendship. Most people just choose to see in me what I can do for them. I am SO finished being that person.

First Memory

Originally posted August 19, 2005.

I was just curious as to how far back most of you can remember. It seems the older I get, the shorter my memory (and attention span) are...but I think that my first actual memory goes all the way back to 1975. I was just 2 years old at the time. We had just moved to Augusta, Georgia from Falls Church, Virginia. My Dad was in the Army , and attending the SATCOM school there. My Mom was busy caring for yours truly and trying to make our apartment "home". Our apartment had electric heating. The heaters were made of some sort of metal, and mounted to the wall. I seem to recall them being about as high as my chest...maybe a little shorter. The control panel was located on the top side of the thing. It had various switches to adjust the cooking temperature...and the switches were surrounded by a soft, felt-like film. I was ever fascinated with it. So...my Mom was busily hanging pictures while I amused myself. She had placed several nails on top of the heater, so that they would be close at hand when she needed one. I can remember picking up a nail and scratching the soft part around the switches...I liked the way it felt...then I poked at it a little, and it gave way pretty easily. The next thing I did will forever be etched in my mind as my First Big Mistake. I poked that nail right through the felt-like, filmy cover thing...and made contact with the wires underneath. There was a loud POP!...and there were sparks...and then smoke. The next thing I can recall was my mother dragging me down the hall by my arm. She practically threw me into the bathroom and ran cold water over my hand. (I think it was in an attempt to soothe the burning sensation that I was experiencing...) My knuckles were blackened a bit...but worse than that...my Mom was REALLY mad at me. Most of my early childhood memories are those of the most traumatic experiences. I think that is sad, because it makes it seem that I was just a hapless and clumsy kid who was always getting into trouble... I wonder what my parents can recall;)

Are you sure she's mine??

Originally posted on August 17, 2005.

I am taking you all the way back to December 31, 1995. This was the date that my first daughter was due to be born. I had gone for a doctor's appointment that day and my doctor thought that I was measuring a little bit big, so he went ahead and ordered an ultrasound just to check on things. I went in and had my scan, and then sat in my doctor's office while he looked the images over...saying hummm....and ahhh at annoying intervals.

He thought she looked to be about 8.5 pounds. We want to see you next week, and if she isn't born by then, we will discuss an induction. OK...red flags were waving all over the place. I don't know about you, but I think 8 1/2 pounds of ANYTHING is totally more than enough to have to squeeze out of one's twat! I voiced my concerns...and he said he could be off by a whole pound. (EITHER WAY, as it turns out...) And besides...he had NO plans of staying late on New Year's Eve to deliver me.

So...I go home and continue to gestate for another week. I go in for my scheduled appointment with strong hopes that he would just have me admitted to the hospital. I felt like a friggin' elephant! I was also fairly certain that the baby inside of me was MORE than finished cooking. He checks things out...and then says he wants to strip my membranes. OK...for any of you out there that are currently expecting, or plan to procreate...EVER!...remember what I am telling you now. You do NOT want your doctor (or anybody, for that matter) to EVER *strip your membranes*!!! OK...just a quick anatomy lesson...the baby is in the amniotic sac...floating in a bunch of amniotic fluid. This sac is located in the woman's uterus. The cervix it the baby's exit from said uterus. The amniotic sac is pressed against said cervix...and when your doctor says he wants to strip them...be basically has to stick half his friggin' ARM in there and he then runs his finger around the rim of one's cervix breaking the seal in between it and the amniotic sac. I will just leave you with this...it hurts. REALLY, REALLY bad.

OK...he says that should get things going. I leave, feeling more skeptical than ever. It was now January 7th. I called the next day in tears. NOTHING was happening. No contractions, not even a TWINGE. I BEG to be induced. I am admitted to the hospital on the evening of the 9th. They apply a capsule filled with synthetic prostaglandin into my cervix. (I would later learn that semen contains the real thing...so I could have just stayed home and skipped that part, heh!) OK...so I mostly stay awake all night paying really close attention to my uterus. That guy I Married sleeps in the recliner beside my bed. Nothing too significant happens during the night, so at 7am on the 10th, an IV is started and I am given pitocin to cause my uterus to contract. The contractions were very bearable throughout most of the day. I was feeling VERY empowered back in those days, and wanted a drug free, all natural delivery. I slowly dilate. (and when I say slowly...I mean VERY slowly) My doctor repeatedly tells me that he thinks that the baby's head is too large to pass through my pelvis. (Well...DUH!!) And I repeatedly tell him that I WILL have this baby the way I had always planned to. (I would later eat those words...)

So...at about 3am on the 11th, I am moved to a birthing room. I am finally feeling hopeful. We are all sleep deprived, and I was getting really cranky because they would no let me eat anything. So...sometime shortly thereafter, transitional labor begins. For those of you who do not know what this means...it is when the cervix dilates those last few centimeters to 10. The contractions come hard and fast with not much of a break in between them. It is both physically and emotionally exhausting. Once I am fully dilated, I get the strong urge to push. The bad thing about this is that the only two people in the room with me are my Mom and That Guy I Married...and they both happened to be sleeping at the time. My mom woke up to the tell tale sound of my straining to pass a watermelon through my yoni...and she screamed for me to stop...thus scaring the crap out of That Guy I Married. FINALLY, I was getting a little bit of support...or at the very least, some attention! heh

My mom goes to get a nurse to come and check things out...and they get the room set up for the birth. I feel so relieved that this is finally about to end...or *is* it?!? I push for more than 6 hours. I think that towards the end, even *I* was getting bored with the whole thing. The pain was becoming unbearable and I was becoming quite irrational. I BEGGED for an epidural...or Demerol...or a mallet. ANYTHING to put me out of my misery. That is when it was finally decided that I was a childbirth flunkie. I was totally incapable of pushing my baby into this world...I had failed. I was quickly prepped for a c-section...and at 1:18pm on the 11th, Rowan Emmalie was surgically extracted from my womb.

The first words I remember hearing were from my doctor...he said "I think she is my record largest baby!" (GREAT, I thought to myself! I had tons of newborn clothing that would never get to be worn!) The anesthesiologist replied "Is that baby holding a cheeseburger?!?!?" (This I took in stride, as he was the sole person keeping me in relatively good spirits whilst I lie awake in the operating table having a giant baby wrenched from my pelvis!) Then That Guy I Married had a good look at her. She was relatively dark complected and had a head full of thick, dark hair...in stark contrast to his blonde hair and blue eyes...and he looked at me and uttered the words no woman who has just gone through 2 1/2 days of labor wants to hear...

"Are you sure she's mine??"

The Cooking Lesson

This story was originally posted on the 9th of August, 2005.

For today's story, I had to do some serious mental de-cluttering. I had to dig through myriad file boxes of memories to find just the right one. One that will entertain, make Julia Child roll over in her grave and simply to make you all go "HMMMMM..."

I am taking you with me back to my high school years. This would have been 11th grade. I lived in a suburb of Washington DC with my comfortable, middle class family. My Dad had (still has, in fact) a job with the Federal Government and my Mom was a Dental Assistant. We even had a dog and a picket fence.

This story is not meant to portray my Dad as a bad guy. In hindsight, I think he was probably pretty typical of fathers from his generation. He worked hard to provide for our family...and spent most of his down time drinking. Now, I am not going to lie to you all and say he was not an alcoholic...but what he *wasn't* was a raging, slobbering, wife beating drunk. Quite the opposite, really. He would come home from work with his 12 pack of whatever beer was on sale at Giant, and then just drink himself quietly to sleep.

Most nights, my Mom would arrive home from work much later than my Dad. This story is about one of Those Such Nights.

It was a Friday. I had brought my friend, Kelly home with me for dinner before we went out for the evening. This was actually the first time she had the pleasure of meeting my Father. He had already emptied a few too many beers into himself when he asked us if we would like a cooking lesson. We were bored and he was amusing, so we obliged him. He gathered together what would be the ingredients for meatloaf. He combined them all together into a large bowl, impersonating Julia Child's voice to the best of his ability. He really didn't do too badly! heh

So...he gets to the point where you put the glob of meat into a baking dish and form it into the shape of a LOAF, right?!?

WRONG! He proceeded to fashion our dinner for that evening into the shape of a penis. That's right, my dear reader...he made a PENIS SHAPED MEATLOAF all in the name of amusing his 16 year old daughter and her shocked and horrified friend.

I had never been at such a loss for words...well...EVER in my short life up until that point. I was very much stuck in between laughing like a hysterical loon and hopping the next Greyhound Bus straight out of town.

I am proud to say that my Dad has been sober for the better part of the past decade...and as far as I know, has not attempted to fashion *any* food into the shape of human naughty bits, since.

The world is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel...

Originally posted on August 7, 2005.

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you a double feature. A tale told by two idiots. Probably full of sound and fury...and definitely signifying nothing.

OK...today's tale is, to me, a tragedy...but I am sure that some of you will see humor in it. Let me start by introducing the characters. You already know me, and That Guy I Married.

Next, I will introduce Nathan. He was from a very upper middle class family in Northern Virginia. He rebelled against all of that by trying way to hard to be a cool hippie sort of guy. I lost touch with him some 10 years ago, but am fairly certain he ultimately settled in Albuquerque with a Massage Therapist by the name of Rainbow or Fruit Bat or something. Of most significance to my story, he was the owner of the van that we inhabited at the time.

Then there was Todd. We were on our way to the West Coast from the East Coast, and stopped in Albuquerque on the way as Nathan had some friends there. We were passing time in a park when I first met Todd. That Guy I Married was amusing himself with a balloon or some such nonsense, Nathan was busy trying to look as cool as a guy in a skirt could look...and I was people watching. Todd approached me, immediately confused me...and then proceeded to charm the socks right off my feet. He came up and simply said "Did it hurt?" I responded with "HUH?" And he said, "When you fell...did it hurt??" Still not knowing what in the world he was talking about, he eluded to my being an angel that must have dropped right out of the sky. I immediately loved him. Of all the people we met during our time On The Road, Todd is one of the rare ones who we remained in contact with. He was much more than a friend. He was a brother to me.

Next, I will introduce you to the Main Character. Her full name was 10,000 Upside Down, Screaming, Yakking Trees...but we called her Kitty-Kitty for short. We picked her up as a stray at a gas station somewhere in the South Eastern United States. She was a very tiny and very cute Calico Kitten. She was well cared for in my charge. I saw to it that she was dewormed and well fed...and even provided her with a litter box, despite the fact that we live in an van. I wore cut off cargo pants most of the time...and she would ride in my pocket, so we would not have to leave her alone in the van if we had to run into a store or something.

There were a few other players in this drama...but I will leave them Nameless...mostly because I do not remember their names anymore. I will just call them Seattle Guy, Girlfriend and Ex-Babysitter.

So...we headed up the West Coast. For any of you who have not made this journey...I highly recommend it. Nathan had some old friends in Seattle, and he wanted to pay them a visit. We met up with them at Seattle Guy's house. He actually lived in his father's basement with his Girlfriend. They were nice enough people...but not necessarily the type who you would imagine hanging out with Punk Rockers or Dead Heads. Wanting to show us a good time while in Their Fair City, they took us to one of their favorite pubs...which was not the type of establishment where you would expect to see Punk Rockers or Dead Heads. I recall it being called the Flower Pub or something like that. Anyway...we were met by many of their friends and acquaintances there...and were treated to many pitchers of Seattle's Finest Microbrew. At some point, this girl came on the scene. Apparently she was Nathan's Ex-Babysitter...and he immediately got it into his little mind that he needed to fulfill some sort of sick childhood fantasy by banging her on that very night.

Once we had consumed enough alcohol to be asked to leave the Flowery Pub Place, we returned to Seattle Guy's basement. I recall more alcohol being served...specifically vodka. (are you noticing yet another common theme??) heh

The merriment continued into the wee hours...Todd would burst out of the Way Cool Game Room, via the saloon style doors, whistling the theme to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly...Nathan was busy trying to get into Ex-Babysitter's pants...and me and That guy I Married just laughed...and laughed. I guess once Ex-Babysitter had become intoxicated enough to think that having sex with a smelly guy in a skirt seemed like a Good Plan...Nathan wanted us outta there. Me and That Guy I Married were booted from the house under the accusation of making Too Much Noise. So...we went to the van. Me, That Guy I Married and Kitty, Kitty. Taking full advantage of the Alone Time, we decided to engage in some gratuitous relations of our own...and then proceeded to pass out.

Upon awaking...I was shocked and completely horrified to find my beloved Kitty UNDERNEATH That Guy I Married. She had passed on to that Golden Box of Catnip in the Sky. She was gone. In short...he SMOOSHED my cat.

There has been much argument over the years as to what really happened to my Kitty...but the evidence kind of speaks for itself, doesn't it??

mutters day

Let me begin by saying that I read enough blogs written by infertiles to know just how blessed I am to have these four wild and wonderful little people in my care. (the red headed chick in this photo is not actually one of my children; she is my sister who just happens to be in the most recent photo I have of all four of my minions, together)

I know that there are many, MANY women out there who want nothing more than to be a mother, but for one reason or another, their bodies refuse to cooperate. It is heartbreaking...but it doesn't make me feel any less crappy when my mother's day is really nothing special.

*Disclaimer: That Guy I Married swears that he wished me a happy mother's day the minute I came downstairs in the morning. After I had tried for TWO hours to sleep in. But was awoken exactly every 15 minutes by my youngest minion. Because he didn't want to disturb he sleeping father. Yeah. I know. So if he did greet me with a warm, mother's day salutation...I missed it. Does that mean there should be no further effort made to make it a special day for me???

Money is tight right now. We are kind of freaking out about an expense that has come up (and we were hoping to use our stimulus payment to cover it...before we were made aware of the fact that we have to wait until June, for a paper check, because we had Turbo tax deduct their fees from our return. Bastards. But that is a topic for another day...) So anyway, I was not expecting an elaborate or fancy gift. A card would have been nice, though. I'm just sayin'.

So there's that. The reason why my Mother's Day sucked. I'm just a big, fat, Whiny MsWhinersons and I am sure that some douche will read this and cleverly point it out to me. I suppose it would be their right, just as it is my right to feel angry and hurt. I can live with that.

On the bright side, my 1st grader didn't trade the gift me made for me at school for a Gladware container full of snails, this year! Since I still haven't decided is I am ever going to repost everything, since I had my little episode and deleted the entirety of my blog's content (well...not before saving it all to a word document for myself), here is the post I wrote last Mother's Day.

Internets, meet Ethan. He is my third born child. My first son.

He is in kindergarten this year.

One of the perks of being Mom to a kindergartner is that you will inevitably be gifted a lovingly planted bean sprout in a hand painted baby food jar, or some such, for Mother's Day.

My Boy, Ethan, carefully carried his gift for me onto the bus for the short ride home this afternoon.

All was well until this little Punk Ass First Grader got on the bus and sat down beside him.

He didn't have a lovingly planted anything for his mom. What he did have was a snail. And some dirt. In one of those nifty Gladware containers. With some holes poked in the lid for ventilation.

He thought Ethan's lovingly planted gift was nifty. Ethan thought his snail was nifty. Punk Ass First Grader proposed a trade.

After school today, Punk Ass First Grader presented his mother with a lovingly planted bean sprout and Ethan presented me with his new pet snail.

This motherhood gig is thankless, I tell ya.

hurt

All I can really say today is that I LOVE being a Mom...but I HATE Mother's Day.