Hell Hath No Fury Like Two Children Bored

I’m the first in line to hump a teacher for all they do. I’m also first in line to have a retraining order filed when I hump an unsuspecting teacher.

Remembering that I’d chosen between nursing and teaching as majors makes me laugh especially hard these days, because I am SO not a teacher. Kids – even my own – make me twitchy. And I’m probably the LAST person on the planet you want ministering to young, impressionable minds.

Unless, of course, it’s teaching them how to ditch the 5-0, in which case, we’re ALL good.

Anyway.

School ended this week, the outcries of parents heard ’round the world. Kids seem to have a hard time going from a rigid structured environment to doing, well, nothing. My own crotch parasites can’t entertain themselves worth dick.

I distinctly recall summer vacation growing up. It started after I rode my bike home from school and said, “Hey Mom, school’s out, here’s my report card!” She’d glance at the report card (straight A’s as usual, except for PE, which I refused to participate in), toss it on the counter and say, “Okay, time to go outside.”

Then I was ushered outside to play, the door locked squarely behind me.

I was able to come in for lunch but then it was right back outside again.

I had one of those rusted-out old metal swingsets, probably teaming with lead paint, and when two people used the set, one of it’s poles would lurch unhappily out of the ground with a metallic screech. I’m surprised I didn’t inadvertently kill myself on the thing.

I also had a sandbox that neighboring cats and roaming raccoons shit in. We’d just fling the crusted-over poo out of the box and keep playing. We called them “poo crunchies.” It was generally the youngest’s job to handle the poo. Because obviously.

I recall many things about summer – the Ice Cream Man, (who even as a child seemed a little Uncle Pervy), cherry snow cones, selling lemonade on the street, non-stop games of Ghost in the Graveyard, chasing each other in Big Wheels up and down our street – but I don’t remember being bored.

And I certainly don’t remember my mother coming outside to play with me. In fact, no one’s mother came out to play with their kids. If they had, summer would have been a hell of a lot less fun.

My eldest is off in California until Tuesday while Alex and Amelia’s preschool teacher is on vacation until next Wednesday. It dawns on me that four and two are too young to simply boot outside to “play.” Especially since I don’t trust them not to find sledgehammers and break down a wall to get back inside and into Dora’s and her stupid fucking backpack’s loving grip.

My children are so bored that I cannot believe they haven’t drilled a hole into my head just to see what happens.

(spoiler alert: it’s empty in there)

I’ve come to terms with the idea I may not last the weekend (unless the rain goes away) and if I do, I’m buying their preschool teacher diamonds. LOTS of diamonds. And I’m buying myself a gigantic bottle of Valium. With a vodka chaser.

Summer, it seems, is why Mommy needs her vodka.

I’m Bringing (Aunt) Becky Back

Last year, I sat on my couch wearing an ass groove into the cushions and going through the motions of the holidays while counting down the moments until it was all done. The only reason that I didn’t stay in bed entirely was because I had small children to care for and, well, they don’t give a shit how miserable and depressed you are, which is kind of the beauty of kids.

It was really out of the norm for me, someone who normally celebrates the magic of the season like a small annoying child, but I was very, very pregnant and on the tail end of a shit year. My friend had died in February, I’d suffered two miscarriages in April and May and while I’d gotten pregnant again in June, it seemed sort of uncertain for awhile.

August through October brought about The Daver’s Nervous Breakdown where he could barely get out of bed, which left me wondering how the hell I was going to support our family without selling pictures of my pregnant self for cash. By December, I was just done. I felt like a heaping pile of dog ass that peed herself when she moved, and really, there was no Christmas spirit to be had by me. I’d weep onto the top of Alex’s head as I rocked him to sleep at night, while my daughter kicked him from within and I’d wonder what I was going to do.

Obviously, January didn’t bring much better news. My daughter was born so sick and even after her surgery, things were so scary for so long. It took me so long to recover from all of that.

What’s shocking to me as I read back through the archives is that there’s not a whole lot of mention of this. Likely, I didn’t know quite what TO say, so I simply said nothing. Because I had no real concrete reasons to focus on and work through to be able to say “Hey Internet RIGHT THERE is why I’m so miserable” I just said nothing.

The skies didn’t really start to clear up for me until a couple of months ago when the PPD and the PTSD and all of those other fancy acronyms began to fade somewhat and in their place I realized what I had to do.

In all of these years, I’ve raised my crotch parasites and pushed them from my nether regions and paced and rocked and bounced and swaddled. And I’ve Wifed, by pushing Dave to succeed at a job that really, he does love and encouraged and listened and pretended to understand when he spoke in what may have been ancient Finnish and keeping the house running and organized and somewhat clean.

But what I’ve neglected all of this time was me.

Your Aunt Becky has been missing from this equation and this life. In all of the time that I’ve been Becky, Wifey of The Daver and Moooooommmmmyyyy of Benner, Alex (not Alexander–his declaration, not mine) and Mimi, Your Aunt Becky has been sorely neglected.

When I realized what I was going to do with the rest of my life–freelance, for those of you not playing along at home–or at least until I decide to actually inhabit my new house and become Lady of the House (Princess Grace Of Monaco) it was like I was finally seeing things as they are for the first time in years. I can be all of those things to my family and Your Aunt Becky too.

So this year, while my house is only haphazardly decorated for the holidays, it’s for a very different reason. I’m busily throwing myself into doing something for myself. Like my homie Pashmina has suggested, 2010 is going to be the year of ME (although, I think she means that it’s going to be the year of HER, because if she was taking a whole year to celebrate ME, well, I think that would be so awesome that I don’t even know how I would handle that. HEY PASHMINA, CELEBRATE ME! And, uh, BUY ME STUFF.).

2010 is going to be the year Aunt Becky Gets Her Groove Back. And hopefully, her fucking figure too.

I’m not sure how I’m going to keep you guys informed of what other projects I’m doing without ramming it down your throats, so any suggestions are appreciated. Maybe links at the bottom of posts like I do with my Toy With Me columns?

In that vein, I’ve started this: my boring professional website. It’s not done. OBVIOUSLY. It’s lopsided, but the picture plug-in is busted and I need The Daver to fix it. I’ve got some other things that I’m getting started on, but so far, nothing that I’m actually able to be all LOOKIT INTERNET, SEE WHAT I DID?

And come January, I’m going to incorporate and form a small company that will likely generate about $1 in income all year long. But because I need to keep my dollar separate from DAVE’S dollars, I need a company. Which means that I need a name. For a company. I’ll probably GO BY “Mommy Wants Vodka” but on the paperwork, I need something more professional.

All I’ve got so far is “Vodka Bandits.”

Halp me.

Also, how do YOU keep your groove, The Internet?

Mommy Wants A Mushroom Print

This isn’t the first blog post I’ve ever written. Actually, it’s probably closer to the 1,00oth, but since I have a habit of checking the first post anyone’s written to see what the first thing they had to say was, I figured that maybe someone else was, too.

So this is it. My first inaugural post here on Mommy Wants Vodka. Backdated here to where it all began, in 2004.

In 2004, I had just met The Daver, who was still my boyfriend and we were juuuust on the cusp of getting engaged which is really a story I should tell you sometime. Not because it’s a very good one, but because it’s worth telling.

I had a son, Ben, who was three and no other children, but I had, as you’ll see by my second post here, a very turbulent relationship with my ex.

It’s strange to look back and see how far I’ve come and where I was and I can only imagine where I’m going.

So hello world, Mommy Wants Vodka. Because Mommy Wants Vicodin sounded too suburban.

Welcome. I hope you’ll stick around.