Redemption is mine

If you read my previous post than you are aware that I endured a devastating Halloween last year courtesy of my Scarecrow and his distaste for his home made digs, but such a fate did not deter me from crafting again this Halloween season. To my shock and awe Magnus requested a snowman costume and proving how fickle a child's memory can be agreed I should make it. No problem. I researched and found the ideal template or so I thought.

I began creating the said snowman with a good deal of anxiousness, because well truth be told I could not endure another Halloween heartbreak. I got my husband's old wind breaker, cut the sleeves, and draped it over my step ladder so the spray adhesive madness could begin. After the said adhesive was applied I stuck pillow batting everywhere, but as I stepped away to inspect my snowman I began to see no resemblance to the Frosty friend my Mags was anticipating, and no I was not just clouded by all the fumes. As I took in the fluffy monstrosity a new idea emerged. This was no snowman, but a cloud and how could I toughen up a cloud-make it a thunderstorm. But I had to sell the idea to Mags, the nervous-pervous, who was scared to death of thunderstorms.

The sell was successful and thunderstorm creation went full force. I sprayed the pillow batting silver, cut raindrops out of cardboard, covered each in foil, hung them from the bottom, and adhered a yellow lighting bolt across the top. Awesome was the only word to sum it up. Lighting in a bottle, if you will. I then took the idea went with it and made it a family affair. Nellie would be the sun, which was also crafted by me-Martha Stewart kiss-ass.

I am happy to report that Magnus had one kick-ass Halloween and found a great deal of enjoyment by being unique. Instead of tears I received accolades for all my hard work. It is lame to say but I was moved more than you would expect. Parents, each in their own way, try to make an impact on their children in case tomorrow they may not have the chance, and yes it seems silly to think of a costume that way, but one day my work will have memories that a costume in a bag would never elicit.

June's first Halloween horror, but probably not my last

The above pictures are adorable right? This cute scarecrow that now adorns our front yard for a festive fall feel may be cute but just a year ago it caused me my first broken mom heart, and truth be told the bitterness I wrongly carry around in life will not allow for me to let it go. This will be the moment for me that my son will never be allowed to live down.

I don't think most people think of me as a crafty person but they are wrong. As a child if I was allowed to learn how to use my mom's sewing machine I would've created some amazing shit, but my mom hates to share and so my seamstress dreams never manifested. However I remember the day I cut a pair of sweats into amazing elf like, button decaled sweet sweat shorts. Tim Gunn would've been proud.

Last year the creative hits continued, and my first born was the lucky recipient. I asked my son for weeks what he wanted to be for Halloween and even though he was obsessed with all things commercial he asked to be a scarecrow. Fabulous, I thought to myself. That means I do not have to endure the college sluts and rednecks at Party City jockeying for the nurse moonlighting as a hooker costume. On the cheap I created for my son the most adorable scarecrow made from his own flannel and jeans, a hat given to me from a friend, and supplies from Hobby Lobby that in total cost me $10. Nightly for a week once the babes were asleep I sat in the living room crafting away and burning the shit out of my fingers with a hot glue gun, and when the product was finished I was so damn proud of myself. I was gushing over my creation, elated with my creativeness.

The day of my son's school Halloween party I did not send the costume to school because it was not a costume I could throw into a bag and have schlepped around by a 3 year old. My son had a costume with depth and character and the necessity for a hanger and delicacy. However, as soon as I crossed the threshold of his preschool room I could see the horror on my son's face. I went into instant panic mommy mode. What the hell had happened at school today? Did he go to timeout? Did he curse out the teacher? Why did he have this look on his face? And then reality hit me in the face like Kim K's booty. He was embarrassed and ashamed.

I scanned the room and saw every million dollar animated character in front of me. Buzz, Iron Man, Thomas, Dora. It was as if Toys R Us puked all over the room, and the only child not bowing down to capitalistic demi-gods was Magnus. My elated, "I'm such an amazing mom" bubble busted and I could feel myself begin to lose my decorum. Magnus and I went into the pisser to put on his costume and all hell broke loose. He let freedom ring and being only 3 didn't care that he was shattering my heart. He matter of factly stated scarecrows were stupid and he did not want to put it on. I pleaded because for hours I had been obsessed with the thought of my adorable man rocking the hell out of this scarecrow look. With much pleading and yes tears I finally got his little ungrateful ass into the costume, and as the picture above shows he did indeed look out of sight, even down to the scowl that any good scarecrow needs to do his job and scare the shit out of birds. But it wasn't birds that little s.o.b. was chasing away-it was my happiness. He refused to take pictures and hid behind an easel so he could cry, as if I showed up with a burlap sack filled with nails and said, "Happy Halloween." The entire party was terrible and all I wanted to do was rip my hard work off and tell him one day he'd appreciate me. Yep, the dreaded "one day" speech, I had been driven to that ridiculous point of motherhood already and we were only in the 1st quarter of his life.

Of course all adults who were at the party raved about the costume, because they had sense, but sadly he was out of the look in 15 minutes. I left his school and I succumbed to the moment and cried like a baby in the car. I could not believe that something I poured myself into was cast aside by the person I gained 60 lbs for and still hadn't lost. Devastation was the only correct descriptive word, and yes I do know how damn ridiculous that sounds. No one died, my house didn't burn down, but I didn't care. I was hurt, because if there is ever one person's approval you want it is the human you birthed and love more than any other on the planet.

Halloween came and I hoped that the notion of all you could eat candy would overshadow the costume. Wrong, again. As we ate our Halloween inspired dinner before the trick-or-treat trek Magnus announced, "I do not want to get candy if I have to be a scarecrow." The little bastard that ate me out of house and home was turning down free sugar because his costume was homemade. The disappointment immediately enveloped me and it was then that Dad let freedom ring. My hubs stepped into his role and very sternly explained to my son that he was going to get his little ass in that awesome scarecrow costume that took his mom many hours to make, which was not bought from a store so he should be happy he was not like everyone else, and he was going to happily walk his ass around the neighborhood and get his damn candy. It was then Magnus' turn to bust into tears, but I had never felt more proud of my husband.

These feelings reemerged last weekend as I took said costume for my fall DIY opportunity but as I staple gunned the shit out the scarecrow so he would stand I did find a sense of calm. Hmm.

And yes if you are wondering, Magnus has again requested a non-commercial costume: a snowman which again I will be crafting myself.

A dedication to Michelle-my #1 audience

Thelma had Louise. Lucy had Ethel. Laverne had Shirley. In life few people besides those who are bound to us by blood truly accept us, love us unconditionally, but a true friend is the exception. There are no boundaries or off-limits topics, and when needed they are your biggest cheerleader and your harshest critic. As a woman, life may be incomplete if this type of friendship is never fulfilled. I mean look at the examples I named out of potential many-it is so influential that it is glorified on screen and in print time and time again.

We can not predict the day that we meet our Louise, and just as bitterly we can not predict the day they may be taken from us. I think as we are young and lively we assume that everyday is a given, and as cliche as it sounds that outlook is light years from the truth. But I am eternally grateful that my Ethel and I did live life to the fullest. We threw caution to the wind and left no regrets, well maybe a few but it never wavered our opinion of each other. There was a synergy.

"Tell me a story." I hear her now so vividly.

I hated sleeping alone in my apartment in the city, and since life took my male significant other away for much of the time I spent many nights sleeping with Michelle at her apartment and yes in her bed. It was never discussed, it just was. I never had to say I'm scared. She just knew. Plus, I hate being thought of as a P, but she always knew the truth. And she always will.

Missing you doesn't get easier I just learn to live with the longing. And yes at night I sometimes wish we were back in Wrigleyville, sleep-over style, making life plans, but most significantly I wish I knew at that time to thank you for making my life that much more amazing.

I am a small shell of the wild child I used to be

There was a time in my life that excitement was at a premium. I ate at restaurants no one would dare bring a child to, I danced till the wee hours of the morning, I took off on last minute getaways, I enjoyed cocktails from the early part of the day into the night. Those days, however, are long in my rear view mirror. I am not a nun, by any means, but when I enter bars now I am moved more by the stench than the tunes.

The highlight of my weekend, besides the early morning tailgate with my kids, friends, and mimosas, was the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner. That's right, I was thrilled beyond belief to buy a vacuum, and I was very disappointed in myself for this reaction. Domesticity is now my vice of choice, when in the hell did this happen? There were days in my past that I blew hundreds of dollars to dance at the best clubs, but now I feel a rush in dropping coin for uber-clean carpets. This revelation of myself in my mid-thirties frightens me, because I can't help but wonder what mundane, trivial indulgences may await me in my future. And I must ask myself who the hell is this person?

And maybe it wasn't just the household purchase that got my juices flowing, but the fact that I was so moved by how my husband presented me the idea. The romantic that he is, he baby wrangled Saturday morning and let me sleep in, which I found to be very sexy of him. Lucky for me my Price Charming did not stop the seduction there. He then brought me breakfast in bed, and I have to say that being able to eat a meal alone and while still warm was magical, and after placing the tray on my lap he announced, "I am buying you a new vacuum today." I know some chickies would find this demeaning even offending, but not me, I found it to be quite endearing. His honesty was refreshing, because truth be told the vacuum was not an us purchase. It was indeed a me purchase seeing as how "us" may take it for a few test drives and then call it a career. I had mentioned a few times in conversation that our vacuum had seen better days, but never once demanded a new one, so I was moved that he remembered and it registered. Again, when we were in our 20's living life to the fullest I would have preferred gifts of a saucier nature but these days who has the time. What I do have is time to vacuum, and maybe find some time to formally thank my man. Maybe even dirty up the clean carpets.

Don't quit your day job

June had it easy in life-her only responsibilities were her home, children, and keeping herself presentable. This June, however, has a 9-5. Yes I feel blessed to have a job and one that grants me time with my children in the summer, but two weeks ago it was curtains on the summer siesta and I returned back to the grind. Normally my children attend a daycare center, but this year for my first weeks back to work it was Daddy daycare.

The hubs, like lots of dads, works a job that eats up much of his life and when he is in the strength coach mode he is more of an enigma than he would prefer, so the time he spent with the babes was priceless. On the contrary what was not priceless was the state of my house and kiddie supplies when the good times wrapped. Like most men, my husband is not a multi tasker. Let's face the truth, it is not a man's style to play with the kids while straightening up the living room and knocking out 4 loads of laundry. Those bastards are just not equipped for such feats of mental strength.

Taking my chillins to daycare everyday meant that my house stayed empty and therefore clean and uncluttered, but when 2 Tasmanian devils are home all day nothing is left undisturbed and all bets are off on the "clean issue." There was nothing I loved more after a full work day than to come home to a living room that had been hit by an F5 tornado and the aftermath. Or the dishes that were eating up all my counter and sink space, and demanded my attention before I created one of my amazing family dinners. But the icing on the cake was the state of my husband-exhausted, stressed, and ready to escape to the office for the night. As he told my girlfriend, "This shit is no joke." DUH! Did he think it's easy to wrangle and entertain a 4 and 1 year old all day. Welcome to my world chump.

My house hasn't been messier or my children dirtier from playing outside all day, but my babies could not have been happier. However, at one point about half way through I came home to every bottle and sipping cup missing and all 8 pacifiers M.I.A. When I asked the very tense hubs where I may find all the required supplies he curtly replied, "Shit I have no idea." And I truly believe he had no idea. Hell, most of the two weeks may just be a blur of whining and giggles. So the next time he is not sympathetic to my complaints I will kindly mention his Mr. Mom stint and hope it evokes some compassion. But if it doesn't I will be sure to plan a girls weekend and allow him to reminisce on his stay-at-home dad days.

a two-wheeler experience

The Cleaver Bi-Annual Family Road trip was a success. Damon and I safely delivered two grandbabbies for much awaited reunions with their kinfolk. As to be expected, the car ride was stick two knitting needles in your eyes amazing, but nevertheless the positives out weighed the negatives and lasting family memories were made for all, except Nellie, who is only along for the ride at this stage in her career.

A true memory maker for Magnus was the "new to him" bike my parents created for his enjoyment. His name was on the side of the yellow old timer, and the girls bar was manlied-up with a Steelers bumper sticker. The true enjoyment of the bike for Magnus was the new freedom it granted him, and his ability to succeed at a new adventure. The benefit for us in the acquisition of the training-wheeled two-wheeler was the small amount of hair it put on our "nervous pervous" son's chest, the nickname we affectionately coined for him on the start of the trip.

For Damon and I the trip put the concept of the bicycle into perspective. The joy of a bike is our ability to quickly take back to riding even after a long layoff, and as we discovered the joy of old friends falls suit. Being back in our stomping grounds was comfort, the friends we visited have been with us since we rocked life's training wheels. And just like the bike it takes little effort to fall right back into our friendships even after years or months spent apart.

If life is a journey than "bicycle friends" are the means of transportation, and the highlight for Ward and I on our vacation was the amount of miles we logged reminiscing with all our pals. A trip isn't a trip if Damon and I aren't blowing through tolls on the Expressways, and promising aloud to worry about it later. Also shaking our booties in the car to stay awake after we kicked it with the sexiest ladies and MILFS in the Chicago area. The hospitality shown to us was out of sight, and very humbling. Damon said it best when I approached him for our third trip from my Parent's house back into the 'burbs, "We didn't drive 800 miles to not see everyone we want to see." And as I reflected on the trek home I was comforted in knowing that we achieved our goal.

WTF do our neighbors think of us

I would not call my family quiet. On the regular, noise oozes from our house, but we have two kids and a big ass dog so it's understandable-to a point. Well, said point was left so far in the dust two days ago that I am almost too ashamed to tell the story. However, since I am damn near close to shameless I shall share.

It's summer so I am on an extended vacation, perk of my job. In addition, so is daycare which means the kids and I have kicked it everyday. There's been some priceless memories created that are both warming to the heart and pull your eyelashes out frustrating. The source of much of my gray hairs has been my "Beaver", or the 4 year old I birthed, Magnus. He is an insightful and charming boy, but he is also head-strong and looking to claim dominance of our lair when daddy lion goes off to work. Even though we fight till the death, so far Magnus has yet to wave the white flag, which is unfortunate for him since I am ready for the challenge. I've dealt with children far scarier then the toe-headed preschooler mean mugging me twelve times a day.

However the problem is that, like most parents, I want to do the whole parenting thing with some amount of dignity and decorum. This request is not too much to ask for, right? Wrong, it is too damn much to ask for because, being a parent is a hot mess. It's a spontaneous experiment in the middle of living your trial run at life on this earth, and shit is bound to hit rock bottom. How you bounce back from said bottom is a topic for the "O" Network so I shall shut up and tell the story.

A few days ago, Magnus and I were in this summer's epic battle to date. The Davis household was tense and territory was ruthlessly at stake. We had dueled over everything from the dog walking by him to covering his testacles with some undies. Nothing was off limits. Such behaviors were most likely triggered by his peace out to the much needed nap, but also behaviors, that as a parent, grate the hell out of your nerves. By the time 6 pm arrived I was truly "at my wits end," and I hate that damn saying, but on the bright side we were full, relaxed, and getting his little ass ready for bed.

Strolling up the stairs I asked him to pick up his trucks to be put away in his room, to which he matter of factly replied, "I don't want to walk with my hands full." That was it, shit was on and poppin'. His statement was the straw that broke this camel's back. I think the response I yelled while grabbing a garbage bag may have included a reference to Prince William and a few "thinks his little ass is too good." I charged the stairs and began to shove every toy within a 2 foot radius of the staircase into the garbage bag to throw in the trash. Toys we had bought with our hard earned dollars, but willing to make into sacrificial lambs.

As soon as the first toy was nestled in its final resting place naked Magnus began to bellow like a maniac for me to not take the toys to the garbage. Yes this annoyed me, but not nearly as much as it broke my heart. His world was ending and I did indeed take a bag of his toys to the trash. His reaction to the garage door opening and my exit from the house put the theatrics in this year's "Black Swan" to shame. Magnus' buck naked, hollering ass instantaneously sidled me and when we emerged from the garage two neighbors out to witness the show. He,of course, was completely oblivious to the audience and went for his Oscar. I, embarrassed as hell, swiftly threw the bag in the bin and tried to gently but firmly pull the streaker out of view. Not surprisingly, that little s.o.b. fought hard, and finally I had to grab both his arms, fight to look him in the eyes, and calmly explain that be looked like a raving lunatic. Naked and deranged , a gruesome duo.

Although not entirely willingly I was able to get him back indoors but the devastation continued on for hours. And I, still utterly mortified, am unable to fully look in the face either of our new neighbors. Ahh, good times.