Senior Discounts for Backhands


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Saturday was a pretty rough day for me.  Nothing tragic or terrible happened.  It was just another day, really.  My teenagers stayed home while my husband and I took the baby with us grocery shopping.  My four-month-old, Lyric, was on her very best behavior despite the fact that we had five stores to visit.

But for some reason, all I could notice were all of these beautiful, young, skinny women everywhere.

I’m thirty-four, I’ve just given birth to my third baby less than five months ago, and I’ve been on and off medications that have the weight gain side effect for years.  Before I became pregnant with third child I had my weight under control and I was slowly starting to see a healthier me emerging.

But that’s not where I’m at now.

Now I’m miserably, pathetically unhappy with myself.  And knowing that one of the main keywords in my husband’s search engine histories is ‘petite’ leaves me feeling completely inadequate and oh so very gross.

I’m a stay at home mom and according to society I should have all of this time on my hands.  Time to cook and clean and work out.  And yet, some how, my four-month-old keeps me absolutely and insanely busy and exhausted.

Every time I get on a good exercise jag something comes up.  I get sick, I have severe nerve-related pain issues, I have a period from Hell.

And here I was, in my fat clothes, feeling fat, trying to figure out why it was size 2 day in Beechgrove all the while sipping on my chocolate milkshake.

Did I mention the feeling fat part?

I was convinced that everyone we passed was thinking “She sure let her self go.”

It’s times like these that I’m happy that I don’t work because I don’t know if I’d be able to go out into public on a regular basis without developing some sort of psychosis.

My husband and I are at our last stop, a grocery store.  We’re standing in the frozen food aisle when he suddenly realizes that he’s missing something important.  He leaves to go see if he left it in the car.

Meanwhile, I’m holding Lyric and tossing some bags of frozen vegetables into the cart.  An older women comes up to me and starts asking me questions.  She wants to know if she can eat this frozen yogurt if she has a urinary tract infection.  I don’t know this woman.  I am not nor have I ever worked in the medical field.

And anyone that really knows me knows that I absolutely hate yogurt.

I tell her that I don’t know.  She reads off the sodium content to me.  Again, I apologize, smiling and tell her that I’m really not sure.  She begins to pay attention to Lyric, the frozen yogurt forgotten.  Her becoming distracted by my adorable baby doesn’t seem weird to me because this happens quite often when we take the her out.  She tells me that she loves children because she could never have any of her own.

And then she asks me if my four-month-old daughter is my granddaughter.

My entire world starts to collapse.  I feel like my legs are made of jelly and they’re getting weaker.  I want to punch this lady in the teeth.  I want to sob.  I want to scream.  I want to let loose one of those guttural, gut wrenching howls.  I want to bang my head against the wall until I see stars.

I hold my tongue, I am all grace and smiles and explain that no, she is my daughter.  In my mind I’ve killed this woman a dozen different ways.  Fire, scourges, drawn-and-quartered with grocery store disability scooters, tongue removed, choked to death, and so many, many more.

She moves on.  I stand there, gripping my baby and as if it weren’t any more possible, what is left of my self esteem takes a nose dive.

Wonderful.  Now I’m fat AND I look old.

My husband shows up and tries to tell me that it must be from the lack of sleep that I’ve been experiencing.  I post about it on Facebook and friends, family, and old classmates tell me that no, I absolutely do not look like I could be a grandmother.  And it’s so very, very sweet of them.

But I still want to cry.


French Fries and Unicorn Muffins


, , , , , , , ,

Earlier this week it came to my attention that my oldest daughter did not have enough money in her lunch account to get her through until the end of the year.   This is largely impart to the fact that she’s been buying french fries once a week.  I guess she felt she wasn’t getting enough grease and starch in her diet.

At first I was really irritated, I mean, money doesn’t grow on trees and all that.  But in the end I figured that, it’s just $0.99, I can let it go for the last few weeks of the school year and let her have this little indulgence. So I put exactly the amount of money that she will need for her lunch and her once a week french fry habit between then and the end of the school year.

I made sure to explain this to her very, very clearly.

I received an email this morning about her lunch balance. I check on her cafeteria purchases and find that she’s added a friggin’ muffin to her weekly lunch. Muffins are apparently made of unicorn because they’re $0.80 a piece.

So now I’m getting mad.  Really?  Even her fifteen-year-old brother, who can eat every single one of us under the table (individually), can stick to the school’s lunches without complaint.  Which is amazing because he is very generous with his complaints.

I look back at the list of purchases and payments again to see if she’s bought anything else and that’s when I see …

That she paid for it with her own money.

She added $1 to her account and since the cafeteria workers do not give change, that means that she added $0.20 of her own money to her lunch account.

Luckily she was still in bed or else I probably would have started hollering at her.  Now I’m feeling like a pretty big jerk.

The moral of this story is that I probably shouldn’t be allowed near people or the internet until after I’ve had my coffee.

Edit: I showed this to my oldest daughter and she told me that the muffins tasted horrible.  So they were, in fact, not made from unicorns.

Laundry Day


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

So I’m trying to collect all of the pieces to my children’s bedding, all the while my four-month-old daughter, Lyric, is loudly voicing her displeasure at not being held …

Me: “Give me just a few moments …”

Lyric: *Hollering loudly.*

Me: *Wrestling a slew of blankets and pillow cases and the fitted sheet from off of and from underneath my twelve-year-old daughter, Journey’s, bed, all the while frantically searching for her top sheet.*

Lyric: *Hollers louder.*

Me: “Just hold on!”  *Finds the top sheet crumpled up in the top corner shelf in Journey’s closet.*

Lyric *Begins all out crying.*

Me: “I’m sorry, Honey-Bunny. Just hold on.”  *Tosses the bedding onto the ground outside of the laundry room and checks in on her.*

Lyric: *Sees me, realizes that I’m not going to pick her up and begins crying louder.*

Me: *Frantically collecting my fifteen-year-old son, David’s, blanket and sheets from around and under his bed when I realize that one of his pillow cases is missing.*

Lyric: *Crying becomes more urgent*

Me: “Ugh! Just a few more minutes!”  *After looking around the rest of his room I go into his closest to find … an entire wardrobe that I don’t think he’s even aware that he has, wadded, wrinkled and forgotten.*  “Seriously?”

Lyric: *Crying is edging towards hysterics. I’m pretty sure a dingo is trying to carry her off by now.*

Me: “Hold on!”  *Pulls everything out of closest and into the middle of his bedroom floor, but doesn’t find the pillow case.*

Lyric: *Cry/screaming now.  Possibly being attacked by a swarm of angry, mutant bees.*

Me: “Oh for God’s sake!”  *Goes back to the pile of sheets and finds the missing pillow case was tangled up in his flat sheet the whole time, not even on a pillow to begin with.*  “I don’t even want to know.”

Lyric: *I’m pretty sure this is what she’d sound like if she’s being eaten by crocodiles.*

Me: “Coming! Coming!”  *Goes into the room, finds her crying, seeming inconsolable but with no tears. So I pick her up.*

Lyric: *All screaming/crying immediately stops. Big, ridiculous, toothless grin.*

Me: “Oh you are soooo manipulative already …”