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Shit I Found Saturdays is a new feature here at Mommy Wants Vodka, which is more fun than a basket of kittens,  except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays. Whatever. Who likes RULES anyway?  So, let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the Internet and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts

(that’s a lie)

Shit I Read:

Apparently, the Olympics are all porny this year. If I’d known that, I’d be watching it.

From Paul.

Map Of My (her) Brain - I feel suddenly normal. Okay, not really normal, but you know.

Sevens – Mr. Lady wrote what was in my head.

Time Lapse Lolla – My partner in crime, Dawn, writes about Day 2 of Lollapalloza

Shit I Wrote:

One Moment in Time

Why My Daughter is AWESOME – (it’s best to read the comments on my blogs there – I swear, it’s worth it)

Shit I Watched:

Also:

-From RR

Shit That’s Hysterical:

shit-I-Found-Saturdays

I need to own this.

And this:

shit I found Saturday

 

don't dis terry

Shit That’s Rad:

shit I found saturdaysvia the lovely swalumni

Shit That Makes Me Want To Own Photoshop:

So You’re a Hipster (and other warning labels that should really exist)

Birds…With Motherfucking ARMS

submitted by Rachel.

Shit Around My Blog:

Blogroll, yo. You want on it (if’n I’m on yours).

I do ads.

I’m on The Facebook.

—————-

Now it’s YOUR turn, Pranksters? What rad shit have you found this week?

I’m around today, so I can add it to the post (and go back and fix last week’s)

There is a difference between hurt and injured. I learned this playing Babe Ruth league baseball.

Playing right field one game, a teammate in center dove for a fly ball, missed it completely and landed flat on the plush grass. The miscue turned a one run lead into a one run deficit. My teammate stayed flat on the grass while myself, the team manager and few other fielders gathered around to check on his injury. The left fielder came over just to ask him why the fuck he dove for the ball but that kid was always kind of an asshole.

“Are you hurt or are you injured?” coach asked, not even bending down to actually check on his fallen player.

None of us had any idea what the hell he meant. The asshole in left field walked away because he didn’t care about the question or the pending answer.

“Injured. I think.” he responded, holding his crotch with his glove and his stomach with the other hand. “What’s the difference?”

Coach explained that injured meant an actual physical injury that would require medical attention. Hurt meant he was emotionally injured – embarrassed and eager to hide from the fact he might have just cost his team the game.

Turns out the kid was just hurt. He was eventually injured after the game, when the asshole left fielder punched him in the chest for costing us a win.

I hadn’t thought about the hurt or injured thing until recently, thanks to my 2-year-old kid. One always seems to follow the other – hurt and then injured.

Here’s how to goes down – he wants to do something that the Permanent Roommate (my name for my wife) and I don’t want him to do like climb the steps without one of us helping, scream his little balls off in the middle of Target or stick Matchbox cars up the cat’s ass. We tell him “no” and immediately his feelings are hurt because we’ve yelled at him. In reaction, he finds a nice open spot on the floor, the wall or any other unforgiving surface and smashes his head against it. Hard. Harder with each thrust. He goes from hurt, to injured, in a matter of seconds.

I’m not sure how to really deal with either hurt or injured in these situations. I’ve got to tell him to stop doing bad things so that’s not going to stop but I’ve got to keep him from injuring himself because he might do real damage or turn into a violent adult. At the very least he could become that asshole left fielder and no one wants that to happen.

Here is what I’ve tried so far:

- putting my hand in front of his forehead to keep it from hitting anything hard, which just angers him more

- picking him up off the ground, and away from all hard surfaces, which just leads to a couple head butts to my nose

- yelling even more for him to stop it, which never, ever helps any situation

- clapping in rhythm to head slams (I ran out of ideas)

None of it worked. It wasn’t until last week that I finally found a working solution.

It went down like this — the kid did something where I had to reprimand him. I don’t quite remember but I’ll assume it was the Matchbox thing because he is obsessed with the cat’s anus. Right after I sternly told him to knock it off, he dropped to his knees and bounced his head off the wood floor. I dropped to the floor next him and did the exact same thing. He went for a second shot but I got my head down before him and bounced my dome off the hard planks one more time. He stared at me.

“What daddy doing?”

“Daddy’s mad too. Isn’t this what we do when we’re mad?”

He looked at me like I was half a moron, got up off the floor and went back to playing with his cars.

I stood up and rubbed my head.

“Are you hurt or injured?” the Roommate asked.

“Neither,” I responded. “Just stupid.”

Chris Illuminati runs the parenting blog Message With a Bottle. thinks he is a writer. When he isn’t being a jerk on post-it notes he writes on this website. He’s also on Twitter.

“Moment after moment, everyone comes out from nothingness. This is the true joy of life”

- Shunryu Suzuki

I’m not going to sit here and tell you that everything is okay, Pranksters.

That would be a lie. And despite what my relatives may or may not think of me, I am no liar. I am also not actually named “Aunt Becky,” because while my parents were hippies, they were NOT sadists (to be fair: had I been a boy, I’d have been Leif, so honestly being named “Rebecca” is like dodging a massive bullet.)

In a very short time, my life turned upside down. I had a nervous breakdown precipitated by ineffectual antidepressants. Divorce. Moving out. Learning about the world. Trying to do right by my children.

My life’s been an open book through this period – I have nothing to be ashamed of: while I have PTSD, that does not define me, nor does it make me a better or worse person. It’s just a tiny facet of what comprises who I am. Having PTSD and being an ACOA are as much a part of me as my issues with migraines and A GLANDULAR PROBLEM. They don’t define me, they simply are a part of me.

Such is the situation with my personal life.

I’m getting a very civilized divorce so that Dave and I can each find Our (well-deserved) Happy. We will be doing what’s best by the children and allowing them to stay in the home they’ve grown up in, rather than trying to sell our home and shuffling the babies back and forth. I will be here at the home more often than not – I will simply be sleeping elsewhere. I choose an apartment that is about 3 minutes from my home so I could specifically come over each day. But those individual components of what I am coping with; they do not define me; they do not make me who I am.

I won’t lie: the very thought of leaving my children overnight is heartbreaking (I cry every time I think about it), I know that I need this time to learn that I *can* do this on my own – that I *am* a capable adult and that I’ll (some day) be able to shove my successes down the throats of those who do not believe in me. I’ll be able to be a better mother by increasing my faith in myself – I’ve spent too many years of my life allowing what others think of me control my life.

I will be moving on October 13, which gives me two months to get my ducks in a row, set up my online garage sale (got some GREAT shit, Pranksters), continue working on recovering from my nervous breakdown, finding additional work, and getting ready to be on my own. (It’s important to note that paying rent on an apartment is cheaper than trying to take over the mortgage (unless I am somehow granted a visit from the money fairy, in which case, my dimply ass is staying here). We’d bought our home at the height of the market and now it is worth appreciably less than it once was. We have debt – more than I’d care to discuss.

(Blah-blah-blah)

This doesn’t make me a better or worse person. These are all just bits and pieces of me woven together.

I spoke with my therapist, whom I see twice a week, and we discussed my life as it stands today. Specifically, we discussed those things that are within my control and those that are not.

From this moment on, I’m choosing to put the things I cannot control on the back burner and moving forward with my life, rather than wasting another anxiety-filled second upon worrying about the “what-if’s” of my life. If I do not, I will go insane.

I will no longer be living in the past or the future. I have one moment; that moment is right now. What I choose to do with these moments, strung together to form a life, is up to me. I can choose to be happy, or I can choose to live a life of fearfulness.

I choose happiness.

one-moment-in-time

And while my past has shaped me, I refuse to allow it to define me: I define me.

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