Remember Two Things

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 If you could impress just one lesson, ideal or moral on your kids, what would it be?

That is the question. A loaded one too…..damn. But the answer is easy. Personally, there are two very important ones, and I’m not picking a favorite. They are equal.  I try my dead level best to make sure The Beans always remember that helping others is their greatest mission. Expanding on that, our Family Tribe has adopted the mantra of

“It’s always better to give to others when you don’t have enough for yourself.” 

Why…you ask? Because it reminds us to give with our whole heart, put aside our own wants or needs, and really focus on helping whomever happens to call upon us. So far, so good. There have been a few times when this lesson has rung true and been exemplified for The Beans in our home. You see, on two separate occasions, we had the opportunity to help out dear friends who found themselves without a place to live, and short on funds. One had been unemployed for a stretch, and didn’t even have a car (wtf? no car in LA…impossible). But he did have a need, which was a stable place to stay so he could have visitation with his precious daughter, as he and her mama had decided it best to part ways. At the time, we had a very large home with more than enough room, but we were pretty short on funds ourselves after a series of unfortunate events and suffering the hidden agendas of backstabbers people we no longer associate with (post for another day). In reality, we were behind on our mortgage and in the process of losing the house. More people would mean larger grocery, utility and water bills. We considered all this for as long as it took for him to answer his phone and learn that he had a home….as long as we did. We did the same thing a few months later, for another friend, and suddenly the house was full, and bubbling with energy. As a home should be.

Shortly thereafter, we all had to move.

But the lesson had been taught, and most importantly….we created a FRIENDAMILY. People whom we consider family and will always jump through hoops for. People who don’t share our common blood, but would be there in the blink of an eye if called upon to help. After all, you just never know when you may find yourself with a need, and it’s nice to ‘have people’. What you put out into the universe comes back tenfold, so I try to put out positive light and energy as opposed to venom, because Karma….well, she’s a bitch sometimes. Okay, most of the time, so I prefer to keep on her good side.

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The other lesson is to BE RESOURCEFUL.

Just like the photo says,

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”  

The Beans see this one all the time, but never more clearly than when I am at the computer writing. You see, I started this blog back in January, at a time when our family was in dire straits,  and I was terribly depressed. The days were not good for me. I wrote about it here. I needed an outlet for bitching creativity and I have never been great at journaling in the tangible sense. So here I am. A few months into this blog, my ability to use what I had (English degree) from where I was (home) to do what I could (write) landed me a real writing gig, that I thoroughly enjoy. You can read a little about that here. And thus, I proved myself rather resourceful in the eyes of The Beans. Of course I do that in other ways too….like figuring out how to fashion a forgotten art project due the next day at school out of food on hand, paper goods, duct tape and ribbon….because we had to….at midnight when every store was closed. That’s just how we roll…..like MacGyver and shit.

Anyway, I could probably go on forever about things I want The Beans to know. There are so many. Impression by example will just have to do in order to get the points across. Sort of ‘real life training’ and ‘flying by the seat of our pants’ without throwing our manners out the door of course. Because manners will take you a long freaking way in this world. Oh hell…here I go again…

That is all. Really.

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If videos kill the radio star…then kids kill the porn star.

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…at least that’s what my mama always told me, and I’m the youngest of 7, so I guess she knew. 
But clearly this post is not about my mama. It’s about THIS mama, and the lack of ‘rolling in the hay’ my barn has seen since becoming one. Of course, it’s not because The Man isn’t ready, willing, and able at the drop of his pants a hat, which I’ve talked about here and here, but mostly as the result of that evil thing called postpartum, pre-menopausal, decreased libido. (I’m certain this is not a bona fide clinical term, but damn it sounds official, doesn’t it?) So, in essence, I take all the blame. But I bore all the children too, and well..things change. And I call bullshit on anyone who claims otherwise, because let’s face it…
As mothers, we just can’t please everyone. Go ahead, try it. I dare you…just for a day. Then get back to me and let me know how it worked out for you, after you awaken from the coma you’ll slip into as the result of the exhaustion it caused. 🙂
First of all, in my house, nine times out of ten, the one who is screaming the loudest gets the attention. Personally, I’ve noticed that The Man tries to avoid this type of outburst, and usually gets neglected as a result. Kind of his fault, but chalk one up for The Beans for always beating him to the chase in this department. Something about ear-splitting wails coming from a tiny human just kills the mood, even if I’ve promised myself , and him, that ‘tonight is definitely the night’. Admittedly, it does improve when they sleep through the night, but I should mention at this point, that our Butter Bean woke up no less than 3 times a night until she was 3 and a half years old. So Sweet Pea slept in the room with us for about a year. Not in the bed with us, mind you, but in a crib across the room. Obviously, the reason for this is they needed to share a room, and I didn’t want one to wake up the other, because a 3 am wake-up call at the hands of a toddler AND an infant is just a shit show. Sometimes literally. And quite the ‘coitus interruptus’ if we happened to be awake, getting busy. So that’s the effect the toddler years had on the sex life. For 3 consecutive terms. Just like prison.
Moving on.
We are now in the years when it shouldn’t be an issue. They are all school-aged. But it still is. Now we must worry about them walking in on us. Lock the door, you say? Tried it. Sweet Pea stood outside and gave her best impression of Stewie from ‘Family Guy’ when he is repeatedly saying ‘Mom, mom, mother, mommy, etc”. Try doing the deed through THAT. Besides, I’m convinced my daughters inherited my ability to pick locks, and that’s a problem. Oh, and not that I’m a ‘screamer’, but there is also the problem of making too much noise and US waking THEM up. What a conundrum, right? So what the fuck are we supposed to do? (no pun intended here)
Schedule sex? I’ve heard of this. Not for me. What I loved most about the months of dating, pre-baby (yes, I said months) was the spontaneity. You know, the freedom to start off with one of those seemingly innocent, yet deep, soul touching kisses that ends up with you and your mate up against a wall, or on the dining room table scrambling to tear each other’s clothes off? Penciling “it” in, just erases all the fun out of it in my opinion. But hey, to each his own.
Go to a hotel? Right. This costs money, and in this economy….with 3 Beans…it’s not happening. Plus, babysitters are scarce up in here. Unless someone wishes to volunteer to come and stay the weekend? And then I’m sure we’d spend the majority of the hotel stay catching up on sleep. Seriously.
Last but not least, the nails in the coffin of my sex drive are the biological changes that have begun to take hold of my body, causing the aforementioned postpartum, pre-menopausal, decreased libido. Nothing I can do about this either. As Dr.V told me 2 weeks ago“You are entering the 40’s. Things start to change.” Often, I just don’t feel sexy, despite constant affirmations from The Man, that I am, in fact, the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. When I look in the mirror, I see a face with tired skin, multiple blemishes and dark circles. The once perky boobs that so efficiently nursed The Beans are no longer standing at attention, and my dancer’s body…while not carrying extra weight….is just, well, soft. Oh…and don’t get me going on my gray roots. I realize I have earned every single silver hair on my head,  yet I really wish I wasn’t such an overachiever in that respect. And there are other things too…but that’s TMI. Google my made up terminology and see what you get in association with it 🙂
Maybe I should read “Fifty Shades of Grey” for inspiration. You think that will help? After all, the man in that book and The Man in my life do have the same name, or so I hear. Perhaps that ‘mommy porn’ will resurrect my inner porn star. At this point, it’s worth a shot, I believe. Especially when the alternative is praying my fire reignites once The Beans have flown the coop. When The Man and I are older than dirt.
Guess I need to go to the library, don’t I?

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I’m giving in. Sort of.

Enough said.

It’s November 5th. Five days into the ‘thankful month’. Seems like all I’ve seen on FB and  Twitter for the last five days,  are people participating in these ’30 days of  Thankfulness‘ challenges.  That’s a great mission to partake in….if it’s your thing. And it’s also good to read…..if that’s your thing.

But I’ll be honest. It’s not mine.

You want to know why?  Chances are you don’t, but I’m telling you anyway. Probably also thinking ‘what a bitter bitch’. That’s okay too. Whatevs. I’ve got my big girl panties on, and I hiked up my skirt and grabbed my balls before I decided to write this post. So, I’m good.  Anyway, here’s my thing.

Being thankful all 365 days of the year. Not just for the thirty days in November.

Not to sound sappy or cheesy, but I wake up every single morning, thankful I woke up. Then I go about my day, silently thankful for the many things I have that others don’t, and reminding myself not to take those things for granted. Because I’ve learned from past mistakes, and know very well that all of it can be gone in the blink of an eye. Life is unpredictable and full of surprises, and is even shorter than we all believe it is when we say “Life’s too short”. It just doesn’t seem fair to be thankful for only 30 days out of the year, when the other 335 are just as important.

There’s also a flip-side to this. Some days I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, and I’m sure Satan himself is saying “God help us all… She’s up.” Those days, I’m thankful I’m not a violent person. Other days I’m thankful ‘my mama taught me better than that’ when I plot revenge against someone I feel has wronged me or The Man or worse… The Beans. ** There are also those days when I feel thankful for my resentment. An odd statement, I know, but it keeps me on my toes and thinking about how I can be a better person, free of resentment or regret. Don’t get me wrong. I have few regrets, and little resentment, but I’m only a human, work in progress.

But, in the spirit of November, I will list a few things I am thankful for at this moment, and in all the other moments of all the rest of the 364 days of every year:

1. A husband who tries his best, and is perfectly imperfect….and who can ‘fix it in post’ and make movies sound better than anyone I know 🙂

2. Daughters who are breathtakingly beautiful, and don’t know it; humble and compassionate. Who are wild and too loud and drive me crazy, but melt my heart with random ‘I love you’s’ whispered in my ear when I need them most.

3. A bunch of ridiculously talented and creative siblings, nieces and nephews who can paint things like this, make cool things like this, and write stuff like this and this. Oh and there are others….they just don’t have websites. Yet.

4. A circle of friends stronger than diamonds who ALWAYS have my back, and would walk barefoot, across an ocean of fire and broken glass to get to me if they knew I was in trouble. Even when I forget to call them or text them , or withdraw into a shell when I need them most. And they always know when I need them most, because they pay attention, and they know who they are.

5. Being a graduate of THE University of Alabama, who has the #1 football team in the country, and who will be BCS Championship winners once again this year. ROLL TIDE ROLL!!!

6. I am thankful for all my new bloggy sisters and brothers, in the Theme Thursday crew, and especially for Lori, over at The Next Step, for thinking this post, was worthy of a guest feature on her blog yesterday. She even did it without my knowledge, which made for a nice surprise! The traffic I got from it put me over 14,000 views up in here since I started writing in January…woo-hoo 🙂

7. I am thankful I have the right to vote tomorrow today, and I will be exercising it too. And proudly wear that sticker all day. On my forehead.

Okay, that’s enough for now. You see, it’s late, and if I don’t go to bed right the fuck now, I’m going to fall asleep and bang my head on the keyboard, causing a gash which would no doubt cause me to be ‘thankful I have health insurance’ when I end up in the ER having it stitched back together. And then I’ll have one of those mornings where my feet hit the floor, and everyone says…..“OH SHIT. SHE’S UP, and INJURED. And can’t wear her sticker on her forehead. We’re screwed.”

Lights out.

**FYI, I have decided to refer to my girls as The Beans aka Sugar Bean, Butter Bean, and Sweet Pea, respectively, from this point on. Sorry for any confusion this may cause. It just seems more fitting a description for them. LOL. 

 

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Damn you…catalogues and showrooms!

I wouldn't care about my furniture if I just had THAT VIEW through the windows!

I wouldn’t care about my furniture if I just had THAT VIEW through the windows!

 

While tidying up in the living room yesterday, it occurred to me that when couples decide to have children, they should be given this valuable piece of advice, in an emphatic tone of voice:

First, take a photo of every pristinely styled room in your home. File the photos under ‘The Good Ole Days’.  Next, sign a reasonably long lease (think 18 years) on a storage unit large enough to put all the nice things you own into. Once the ink is dry on the paperwork, scurry on over to the local thrift store,  and pick out replacement furnishings. The shabbier the better. Don’t spend a lot of money, as you will likely be beggingperhaps even paying someone from this very establishment to pick these items up again in a few years looking much worse for their wear. Under no circumstances should they be considered “investment pieces”. Next, haul everything back to your house, arrange it in the space and get used to the way it looks, feels and smells. Close your eyes and envision it more tattered and broken in. Imagine it if  you allowed a bunch of chimpanzees to express their artistic creativity on it using food as their medium. Oh, and black Sharpies and glitter glue too….for flair. Do you have a visual? Good. Dump a load of Pop-Tart wrappers, popsicle sticks, Capri Sun straws and Cheerios all over it. Now open your eyes and welcome yourselves to the furnishings and decor you will have during your life with small children and preteens. Don’t worry, eventually you will be able to get your real stuff out of storage and have your dream home again. Probably just in time for your grandchildren to enjoy 🙂  

If we’d known then, what we know now. So very cliché’, but oh so true.

My point is, I always thought when I married and had children my home would, at any given moment, look as if it had been staged by the decorators at Pottery Barn or Restoration Hardware and smell like Yankee Candles threw up in it. I should also add that my delusion included a perfectly organized home office, a kitchen worthy of a Crate & Barrel Hall of Fame Award, and a playroom resembling the offspring if a LakeShore Learning Store and a Toys R Us had an affair. However, as I gazed upon my house today, in all its lived-in, messy glory, I realized if anyone ever asks, I’ll need to tell them I drew my inspiration from John Belushi and hired the set dresser from Animal House to be my right hand man on this project just to save face. Really.

I’m convinced my delusion stems from the fact that I grew up in a 100 plus year-old house with a mama who didn’t seem to believe that “cleanliness is next to Godliness” and welcomed clutter with arms as open as the Statue of Liberty beckoning for the “tired, hungry and poor” of the world, bless her heart. As you can imagine, I was terribly embarrassed by my house, always opting to go to a friend’s instead of hosting a gathering at home. In my estimation, all of my friends had cleaner, nicer homes, in better parts of town, filled with newer, shinier things. When I was in high school, my middle sister had a perfectly clean, new home in a gorgeous country club neighborhood and I yearned to go and live with her and my brother-in-law. Now in my adulthood, I understand it had nothing to do with the house at all, and everything to do with the plethora of other reasons I avoided playdates at home at all costs. But that is a post for

a different day. Anyway, as my story goes, I grew to hate clutter and filth, secretly vowing to have a home one day that was the absolute antithesis of the one where I grew up. A girl can dream, right? If you read the first paragraph, you know my house clearly does not live up to my delusion. Turns out, I’m a crappy housekeeper, and I enjoy building Jenga-like sculptures with laundry baskets full of clean, yet unfolded clothes on my bedroom floor. Right now, there are 9 baskets in all. It’s quite a spectacle. I just can’t seem to find the time to fold and put the clothes away once they have been washed. (Another one of those tidbits people should be told before having children: YOU WILL HAVE NO TIME TO ACCOMPLISH MUNDANE TASKS IN A TIMELY MANNER)

What I didn’t realize while growing up, is that Mama was hoarding memories. Thinking back, my childhood home read like the scrapbook of our lives. Especially the lives of my older siblings. They left their marks throughout the castle. And amongst all that clutter were family treasures: the little, stainless steel cup by the bathroom sink, the blue ceramic vase thingy that held pencils and pens by the telephone, the napkin holder that said “no matter where I serve my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best”. Everything I just listed has its own little spot in my home, along with our own family “treasures” that have been dragged from house to house over the course of 13 years. I’m mostly okay with it all. But it’s taken some time.

Occasionally, I become possessed by the gods of OCD, and spend a couple of days on a cleaning jag, frantically trying to organize things, scrubbing toilets, dusting trinkets and folding laundry. During these times, I try to guilt, and/or bribe the girls into helping instead of playing because I have decided their rooms should be certified as “disaster areas”.  After lots of protesting (from them) and threats (from me) they usually oblige. Notice I said occasionally, which is code for “almost never”. Admittedly, a good thing for all. Otherwise, no fun would ever be had by anyone. Everyday I have to remind myself that the people who care about me, will come visit anyway and feel right at home, and I should never be embarrassed. Those who examine the props instead of the talent will not be invited back to the show. Or perhaps never invited in the first place if I suspect they might turn out to be a jerk about it. This unfairly weeds a lot of people out I’m afraid, and often hinders my girls’ ability to have friends over. My girls aren’t the least bit embarrassed by their home. Because there is nothing wrong with it, and I know this. In fact, it’s quite beautiful, located in a safe, clean neighborhood with fantastic public schools (a major plus in Los Angeles). The stupid insecurities are mine.  (A FINAL TIDBIT I WISH I’D BEEN TOLD: If you actually knew how often people think of you, you’d realize how seldom they do. Give it up….enjoy life’s party and the children who provide the confetti.) 

I’m working on that. Promise.

 

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