Little Bits of Pixie Dust

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thourougly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, what a ride!!"

Friday, June 21, 2013


I think I've written a total of three fan letters in my life.  The first was when I was about eleven or so and I sent a very! exclamation point! heavy! letter with hand drawn hearts and stars to the OFFICIAL New Kids on the Block fan club.  I got an OFFICIAL NKOTB fan club membership pass and a "signed" poster of the band.  Unfortunately, I did NOT get an RSVP from Joey McIntyre to my next birthday party, which is what I think I asked him about in the letter.  When I first started blogging, I found Stephanie Taylor's blog and then subsequently went out and read all her books, and she was so funny and cool that I just felt like I had to let her know.  And she wrote me back!  And I was thrilled to pieces, just because she had taken the time to read my e-mail and actually reply to me... that just meant the world.  I also wrote to Dooce once upon a time, and I never expected a response from her because, well, she's blog royalty, isn't she? 

So today I left a comment on Amalah's blog and now I feel like a huge dork.  I never know how to come across and I end up trying to be funny and so cool and probably come across as the hugest nerd instead.  I feel like when I'm leaving a comment on someone's blog that I seem stalker-esque; like I've read Amy's blog since she first started it like ten years ago, but I've never been a big commenter so when I do, it's like here is this stranger that you've never heard of that is making familiar comments about your life or your kids and that just seems odd to me.  I guess this is why I'm not in the cool group.  But when you read someone's blog for years and years, you really do feel like you know them somewhat, or kind of know how their family operates.  It's like that friend that you only talk to once every couple of years; you know them in a casual way, or whatever they choose to share with you, but you're not their BFF or even in their contact list; they still have to dig out that scrap of paper you scrawled your phone number on at that bar one time to even remember your number.  When you leave a comment it's almost like a mini fan letter; you're letting someone know that something they've written was enough to make you take a couple seconds out of your day to say something back to them.  And once again, the infrequent comments that I do make are total nerd situations. 

To sum it up, I am a dork and should not come in contact with other humans, especially cool ones.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Mini "Magic Mike"

That last post was really heavy, and I didn’t want to leave it up there all weekend, being all depressing and bumming people the fuck out. So here’s a funny story for you about my son, who has found his true calling….

So, C. was outside playing before dinner last night. I left him outside while I went in to start cooking; I told him he had five minutes and then he had to come in to eat. I busily started cooking, and when the five minutes were up I went outside to collect my son. I opened the door and he was standing on the sidewalk completely naked. Well, let me clarify… he DID have some Spiderman tennis shoes on and his shorts and underwear appeared to be in a pool around his ankles. But he was naked enough. My mouth dropped to the floor and for a second I couldn’t even speak, I was so shocked.

“C.!” I hissed, “what are you DOING?? Get in here, right now!”

C. began to frantically pull up his pants, apologizing. I was now walking a fine line; I don’t want him to think there is anything wrong with his body, or parts of his body, and I didn’t want him to be too embarrassed; just enough so that he wouldn’t engage in public nudity anymore. Once the pants were back on, I ushered him inside.

“What were you doing without pants on, buddy?”

“Well, that boy had to go pee and he couldn’t find a bathroom so he peed on the sidewalk. Then I wanted to pee on the sidewalk, so I did, and I made a shape with my pee.”

“Okay, but when I went out neither one of you were peeing.”

“Yeah, well after I went I wanted to show him my privates.”

Oh god, I thought, he’s going to grow up to be a creepy flasher! One of those weird guys that sit in the bus station and whip it out for passerby. Calm down, self, calm down.

“WHY did you want to show someone else your privates? You know we’ve talked about how certain parts of our bodies are only okay to be shared with ourselves or a grown up you trust, right? They’re called privates for a reason, right?”

“Yeah Mommy, but I HAD to show him.”


“Because my privates do tricks.”

I don’t even want to know. I really don’t even want to know. Boys are a strange breed.

My mom has always been my best friend. Her and my dad got divorced when I was two, and until she met my stepdad five years later, it was the two of us against the world. She could never afford a baby-sitter, so she just took me with her wherever she went. We shared a home, a bedroom, a bed. Of course when my stepfather moved in I was a complete and total brat for about a year, furious that someone had taken my place next to my mom on the couch. I adjusted, as kids do, but we remained the best of friends. Over the years, she has dried my tears countless times, first because I had fallen and scraped my knee, then over a silly fight with a friend, then when a boy broke my heart for the first time. And then when a boy broke my heart the next time. I have forever admired her, for the woman and the mother she is. I look back upon my childhood with nothing but fond memories, lots of family, and my mom is part of everything. When I went to see the movie “Stepmom” in the theater, I SOBBED when Julia Roberts’ character is talking to Susan Sarandon and says, “You are the keeper of everything. You are a part of every memory, have kissed every wound…” It struck me so hard because my mom IS the keeper of everything; she is my entire past wrapped up in a good smelling package that knows exactly how to scratch my back and how I like my eggs and how that one time I fell off a tractor and broke my wrist.

Recently my mom and I have come to an impass in our relationship. After living with her and my stepdad for about four months while my husband and I were separated, she was positive that I wouldn’t go back to him and would forge ahead on my own. Instead, I chose to give my marriage another chance and she is completely against it. I know that she feels I just used her, used up her home and her heart and then took my baby and left again. A part of me even understands why she would be hurt and angry. I know the reasons why she didn’t want me to get back with my husband, and that same part of me understands that, too. A mother’s job is to protect her baby at all costs, and she feels that A* is not able to do the same. She just wants to take care of me, the same as she’s done my entire life. The problem is that I don’t need that kind of protection anymore; I can make my own decisions and have made choices that I feel are right for MY life, MY family. A* has never mistreated me in any way; he has made some complete dumb ass decisions that happened to affect our family, but he is still the greatest father I’ve ever seen and I love the man to death for how he loves me. I don’t feel that I need to defend him at every turn.

The last time I spoke to my mom was on April 27, her birthday. I took C. over for a family party and that was when he blurted out that the dog sleeps in Mommy and Daddy’s room, therefore spilling the beans that A* and I were definitely living together again, way before I was ready to tell. I wanted to get settled and have things go well for a change before I broke the news, gently. When he said it, the entire room got silent and every eye was on me. I blushed an unflatteringly tomato color and stammered out a subject change. After cake, everyone piled into cars to go and see my parent’s new condo. As luck (or my mother) would have it, C. rode with my grandma and I ended up with my mom in my car. Alone. She started the second I pulled out of the driveway.

“So, you couldn’t even make it a week, huh? I thought you could at least make it on your own for a LITTLE while.”

*Silence. How do you reply to this?*

“I am SO disappointed in you. So, so disappointed. (Your stepdad) is going to be furious.”

I still didn’t say anything. In my younger years, having my mom disappointed in me would have been the key to my undoing. I couldn’t have stood for it. I’m older now, and have a thicker skin, so I was able to hold off the tears until AFTER I drove away from the condo. But in my heart I was still devastated, because I still don’t want to disappoint my mom and I want more than anything for her to be proud of me. To think that I’m as good of a wife and mother as she was and is. Her opinion of me stings. It tears me up inside. This is the longest we’ve gone my entire life without speaking. I think of her every day, and more than once I have found myself scrolling through my phone, ready to text her some funny thing that C. did or a little antidote about my day, only to remember with a crash to my insides. Oh yeah, we’re not speaking.

And it hurts, really fucking badly. I miss her so very much.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013


• I continue to fail at being a mother. I want to start C. in some sort of preschool program in the fall. His birthday is in August, so I could technically send him to kindergarten this year, but I don’t think he is socially ready to do that. He knows all the academic stuff, ABC’s and numbers and shapes and colors, but being an only child and kind of spoiled sometimes, he isn’t that good at things like taking turns, listening to others when they talk, following directions… so I think that going to preschool would be great for him to learn that kind of stuff before he starts school in the fall. I thought I was being proactive by calling three months in advance. (you can all laugh, I know.) Obviously most of the places I’ve called have ONE spot left, or the morning class is full, or whatever. Now I feel rushed and pressured to get him in somewhere, anywhere that has a spot, and of course I feel guilty that I waited this long and I’m worried that I’ll have to stick him in some dilapidated shack where they tie children up and don’t feed them, just so the kid will learn to raise his hand if he has a question.

• I feel that my medication isn’t working, but I can’t get into the doctor for another two weeks, so you should all be pitying A* right now. Yesterday I think I cried the entire day, over pretty much nothing and everything. My face was so swollen that I looked like I was involved in some kind of boxing match. I appear to be allergic to my tears, so whenever I cry just a little bit my eyes swell until it looks like I have an extra eyelid and my whole eye area burns really badly.

• C. needs to be taught about “family privacy.” As mentioned above, I had a bad day yesterday and was picking at A*. C. went outside to play with some neighborhood kids and the first words out of his mouth were, “My mommy and daddy are fighting. My mommy is crying in the bathroom.” Mortifying! And guilty inducing!! One of the kids asked why, and C. replied, “Because my dad ruined my mom’s day and night.” Which is TRUE, but not something I wanted to share with the neighbors. So last night before bed we had a talk about how mommy’s and daddy’s fight sometimes, and Mommy cries a lot from happiness and sadness and just about every other emotion in between, and sometimes you need to keep things to yourself about what goes on in the bathroom.

• Yesterday was gloomy and depressing, so on a whim I decided that C. and I should go outside to splash in some puddles. I told C. that we were going outside and he told me it was raining, we couldn’t possibly go out. Once he was convinced I was serious, I was suddenly the coolest mom ever and we went out into the gray rain and jumped in every single puddle we could find. This was the only time that I was NOT crying yesterday. I should always take a break and splash in the puddles.