B is for BOO as in HOO

I'm pulling a double duty today. (Hahaha...I just said 'double duty'. Yes, I am still a ten year old inside.)


My blog post today is written for MamaKats Writer's Workshop and Alphabe-Thursday.

The letter this week is 'B'. The writing prompt, "Signs that your little one isn't that into you anymore."


See, I've always prided myself in being a strict, but cool mom. I have three children; an eleven year old boy, an eight year old girl, and a three year old son. They adore me. Or at least the younger two do. I tell them every day that they should worship the ground I walk on, and they are still little enough to believe me. My oldest however?


When he was little, he thought I was 'Da Bomb'.


No more.


Just a couple of days ago, I was given a sure-fire sign that this is no longer the case.


My oldest, Billy (not his real name, but we needed a B word) used to laugh and join in when I sang and danced. We did impromptu duets in the car, the kitchen, the living room.



Just for fun (I had to whisper it, because he would be mortified if he knew I said that.)


Billy has a new Best friend now. They are Buddies, compadres, pals, amigos. I get it. I do remember being that age. Anyway, I was fixing dinner, listening to the radio, singing and dancing, when they walked in the back door. Well, I'm not going to stop my grand solo just because I have an audience. However, the conversation went something like this...


Billy: Mom, what the heck are you doing?

Me: What does it look like I'm doing? I'm making dinner and singing.

Billy: No you weren't. You were trying to dance too.

Me: So?

Billy: Mom's shouldn't dance. Ever.

Me: Why not?

Billy: Cause it isn't cool. It isn't something that other moms do.

Me: Well they should.

Billy: No, No they shouldn't. Moms dance like moms.



And then it hit me. I am no longer that teenager who was president of the dance team. I am now somebody who dances like...gasp...a mom.


So Billy's new Best friend says: I wish my mom sang while she cooked dinner. She usually just yells at us that we aren't helping and tells us to set the table.

Billy: Cause that is what moms are supposed to do.

Billy's new Best friend: (shrug)

Me(losing my temper a little bit): Okay. If that's what you want. Have you done your homework and reading yet? Better go do it. While you're at it, clean your room, pick up the living room, and the garbages in the bathrooms need to be taken out. After that, get your butt back into this kitchen and set the table, and DO IT NOW!

Billy's new Best friend: (eye roll) You sort of deserved it dude. Don't diss on a mom when she's cooking dinner.

Billy: He's right. I'm sorry. Sing and dance all you want. Just Don't Do It In Front Of Us.


*End of Conversation*


I learned many things from this exchange with pre-teen boys.


A) By son now thinks I'm a dweeb (and he's sort of right)


B) I wish I could adopt his New Best Friend. (he seems to be older and wiser than my son)


C) Even though I dance like a mom, I'm still not going to stop doing it. Because I like it and it's what I do.


D) BOO HOO (My son isn't into me anymore.) *sob* *sniffle* *wipe nose on sleeve*


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A is for Ascot

This is my first participation in Alphabe-Thursday. And I have to say I am a little bit nervous, because for some reason the only "A" word I could think of had something to do with the word that starts with an 'A' and is related to the word 'butt'.

I knew I couldn't write an entire blog post about an a**, so it took a little bit of brainstorming. I didn't want to do apple or aardvark or acrimonious. And then it hit me.

SCOOBY

DOOBY

DOO.

And more importantly, my favorite character on said show. "FRED."

See, I spent most of my childhood pretending, living, wishing, I could be a part of the Scooby Doo cartoon. I would rush home from school every day so I wouldn't miss a moment of Shaggy's exclamations of "Zoicks", or Velma's ponderings over "My glasses. Where are my glasses?" or Daphne's style, or Scooby's cries of "Raggy! HELP!"

But most of all there was "FRED."

In my young mind, Fred looked a lot like Bo Duke (from the Duke's of Hazzard). Both were blond, buff, and clever. There was some portion of my mind that understood age though. I knew Bo Duke was WAY older than me. Like in his twenties or something. But FRED was a high school kid. Not that old. (Too bad my mind didn't think in terms of reality. Like the fact that Fred is a drawing...and Bo Duke was real live person.)

If you think about it, Fred held the whole Scooby gang together. If it weren't for him, they never would have split into groups allowing Scooby and Shaggy to run into the bad guy, Daphne to get kidnapped, or Velma to lose her glasses. It was also ALWAYS Fred's idea to set a trap and capture the bad guys. True, Shag and Scoob always messed it up and ultimately caught the person wearing the mask, but Fred was the one who started that action.

What can I say?

I had a CRUSH on a cartoon character.

Now I am grown-up. And I married a guy who is tall and blond. (surprise, surprise). Every Halloween I have tried to talk my husband into dressing up as Fred. But he won't do it.

And I won't tell him.

That I want him to dress up like Fred because...

I think Fred is sexy.

(Picture me blushing right about here)

So to me...

A IS FOR ASCOT.

The defining characteristic of Fred. And the one item on clothing I wish my husband would wear.

:-D

Want to Alphbe-Thursday next week? Prepare for the letter B.

Wanna read some of the fabulous 'A' entries?

Go HERE:http://jennymatlock.blogspot.com/2010/09/alphabe-thursday.html

Fifteen Years of Wedded Something.

Yesterday was my fifteen year anniversary. Count it--the big-- 1-5. And sometimes it amazing me that we created a whole family.

Now I always read blog posts where people go on...and on...and on...and on...and on...

about how fabulous their husband is. How it has been "so many" wonderful years. How they don't know what they would do without their husband.


Blah. Blah. Blah.


Don't get me wrong. I Love My Husband.


I just don't like my husband every second, of every day, of every week, of the year. Sometimes I get really mad at him, and even though I love him, I don't like him very much.


I actually think that we really "pull the wool over" single people's eyes. Don't you think that those of us who are married should tell them that marriage is freaking hard? That you have to make sacrifices A LOT? That once you have kids it is SOOOO MUCH harder? That almost every day you have to compromise about something? That you can't be a selfish jerk and make a marriage work?





You don't think we should tell them?





Well... me either!




BUT, I digress.




Even with ALL of That...




Anniversaries are times to focus on why we married this crazy person in the first place, and why we are still married to them.




Not very long ago, I actually had a friend who is contemplating getting married ask me how I knew that my husband was "THE ONE." And to be honest, I hadn't thought about it in such a long time, that I had to pause for a moment and really think. Why did I marry him? How did I know he was the person I wanted to hang out with...well...forever?




And This is what I came up with...



When I met my husband, John (*note: not his real name), I was "sort of" in love with someone else. We started hanging out and dating because this person I liked was off in another country for a couple of years.



It was all just innocent and "friendsy" at first. (Not that there weren't those 'friends-with-benefits' kind of moments). I could talk to him for hours. He would take me to nice restaurants and movies. And we went on FUN dates where we went skiing or sledding or to comedy clubs. Because I liked this other person, it was EASY for Me to be ME.



And then I started realizing I LIKED JOHN (*note: not his real name). As in...liked him, liked him.



HOWEVER, I had a history with this other guy, and I wasn't sure what I wanted. Then John (*note:not his real name) PROPOSED. And I said "yes."



BUT it wasn't real 'yes.' It was a 'yes' that you say because-you-don't-really-know-what-else-to -say 'yes'. It was a FAKE 'YES.'



Well, pretty soon dates were set, and people were invited, and dresses were getting chosen, and.... I WAS TERRIFIED.



Was I doing the right thing? What about this 'other guy' that I thought I loved before? Was I getting married for the wrong reasons? Would I marry him and then wish that I had married 'other guy?'



So I told John (*note: not his real name). And I gritted my teeth and waited for him to be furious.

.

.

.

.

.

ONLY... He Wasn't.



He was understanding and kind. And he told me that he loved me anyway, and that he would let me choose whatever I wanted. And he would be happy for me.



AND THAT IS HOW I KNEW.



Yes, we do have our ups and downs. The rollercoaster of marriage is alive and well in my house. But I still remember why I chose him. And as long as I can remember that...



Then Everything Will Always Be Okay.
*Sorry about the sappiness. I'm allowed that every once in a while, right?

The Hugeness of my Hatred

Abhore. Detest. Loath. Can't Stand. Dislike Intensely. Opposite of Love. Hatred to the ninth power. Etc. Etc.

These are all words I would use to describe having to cook or bake. Speaking of which. What's the difference? I've never understood it. Either way, a stove is involved, and you get hot and sweaty. Then people come in and devour it in fifteen minutes flat. To me, it is akin to laundry, dishes, and cleaning toilets.

Once is never enough.
You make a big breakfast. As soon as it's cleaned up, you have to start thinking about lunch. You make a decent lunch. As soon as it's cleaned up, you have to start thinking about making dinner. Then you slave away making an awesome dinner, and by the time it is eaten and done, it's time for bed.

I SERIOUSLY don't understand why people love it. It sucks. And I'm not even kidding.

Given this, you will see why I am so proud of myself. I just made this...


ALL

BY

MYSELF
And they were delicous...and made my house smell yummy...and everyone loved them...and it was fabulous.

AND!

I won't be doing it again for probably another five years (which was the last time I made cinnamon rolls).

So you if want yummy food and someone who doesn't cuss and swear under their breath while they create something delicious for you to eat, all the while cursing heaven above for god creating us so we have to eat three times a day.

DON'T

COME

TO

MY

HOUSE.
:-D The End

The Closet Dilemma

One of the prompts for writer's workshop this week was..."Tell us about a childhood fear you have taken into adulthood."

At first, I wanted to be all BRAVE and act like I have no fears, but that wouldn't be true. I'm afraid of lots of things.

HornetsSpidersDust MitesBed Bugs
LiceHaving my skirt tucked into my undies
Swearing in front of people I shouldn't swear in front of
Running into an EX-BoyfriendHaving to admit I'm wrong
Falling off a cliffSushiBoogers on little kids fingers...
and
You get the idea.

HOWEVER. There is one thing I've never admitted before that is completely true.

I still feel like there are monsters in my closet.
I can not sleep with my closet door open. It freaks me out. BIG TIME. Every time I have ever neglected to close it, I wake up in the middle of the night and feel like someone or something is watching from that darker spot in the corner of my room. Several times, I have believed it so much and have been so certain of it, I have to roll out of my bed and crawl (commando-style) over to flip on the light. As soon as the light is on, the thing standing in the open doorway disappears, but it still makes me have a cardiac arrest.

The problem with this is that my husband isn't bothered by the closet--as any rational adult would be--and so he always leaves it open a crack. He'll get up to put something away in his side and leave the door open. I don't dare tell him to close it because I'm scared out of my mind that a boogeyman is going to get me, so I always have to invent some excuse for getting up and then discreetly closing the door. I think he's getting suspicious, but he never says anything.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't believe in ghosts. I DON'T. When it comes to those kinds of things, I always just say "I choose not to believe."

But I swear. I have a boogeyman in my closet.

And it's making me feel like a hypocrit when I tell my kids that there is nothing in the dark that isn't there in the daylight.
And I hate that some nights I still have to hide under the covers.
And I want to pretend like I'm all courageous and tough.

When really. I'm still just a little kid. Afraid of monsters in my closet.

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