I haven't really posted in here much lately, but I'm an anxious ball of nerves right now -- have been for the past few days -- and thought I'd post in hopes of some encouragement. So here goes a long-winded story that will hopefully have a happy ending:
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I am a mother. And as a mother, I occasionally have parenting questions or just feel the need to vent to other mothers who know my plight. I like having a support group around me, and Facebook parenting groups fill that role pretty well. But there's ALWAYS that small handful of mothers who will turn every thread into a "you're parenting wrong" rant.
Oh, Flat Head, you underdog of screwdrivers; you who are often overlooked in favor of your much more popular (and let's face it, much more useful in accordance with the "screw driver" title) brother, Phillips.
Ah, dreams. The one place where you can do and be and have whatever you want! Unless you're me, apparently.
Do you ever think about the things you wish you could have done with your life and get so sad, you feel like you're at the bottom of a pit you'll never get out of?
I'm just now reading/watching the Harry Potter series for the first time ever. Yeah. I know. I'm a decade and a half late to the party. But I was 18 and more interested in Stephen King and Neil Gaiman when Mr. Potter first made the scene, so I couldn't be less bothered with what I considered silly kids' books about wizards and such.
I'm writing this on behalf of my husband. He's not all that "social media savvy," so he's dictating and I'm typing. These are all his answers, given while playing Space Engineers. So without further ado...
How to fix a sandwich like a third grader.
Step one: Take the ham and cheese out of the fridge. Step two: Complain that you can't find the bread in the pantry, even though it's already on the counter, six inches from where you sat the meat and cheese. Step three: Realize the bread was there the whole time, and smack yourself in the forehead while saying "Silly me! It was there the whole time!" Repeat this step until a parent acknowledges your forehead smacking and silliness. Step four: Put meat on your sandwich, then spend the next seven minutes herding the cats so you can split a piece of ham between them. Step five: Get mad at the fly taking advantage of your unattended sandwich. Step six: Put cheese on your sandwich, then spin around the kitchen with your arms out for thirty-eight seconds. Step seven: Trip over rabbits, who have been attracted by your spinning and flailing. Stop to pet them and give them each a veggie treat from the fridge. Step eight: Step on a sandbur, then have Mom pull it out. Step nine: Shoo off that pesky fly again, then put the top bread slice on your sandwich. Step ten: Eat exactly four bites of your sandwich and declare yourself full. Hand the rest to Daddy, then ask for ice cream. Be disappointed when you're told no. Usually, I let myself live with the delusion that I'm well-spoken, charismatic, and an all-around likable woman in person.
And then, now and again, I'm reminded of just how bizarrely awkward I really am. *I'm changing his name to save his identity, but anyone who knows me personally knows who he is.
Mark and I started dating in 1998, during my senior year of high school. He was a year older than me, and we'd met and become friends the year prior, during his senior year. Also, by the time we finally started dating, we had started a band together with me on bass, him on guitar and vocals, and another friend on drums. We practiced several times a week, played gigs on the weekends, and went out on dates nearly every night. I graduated high school and immediately went into college with him. |
Don't Pick Your Nose at the Dinner TableAuthorWife. Mom. Atheist. Photographer. Science and History enthusiast. Categories
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May 2015
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