Why Moms need Coffee and Wine: Introducing Julian the Wolfbaby.

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This is Julian.  He is 34 months old.  He took a bath before bedtime last night and I let his hair dry in a mohawk.  This is how he woke up and no matter how much hair product I use to keep him from looking like Baby Wolverine, this is his look today.  I will use Julian the Wolfbaby as an example of why I need coffee and wine, sometimes at the same time.

I just read a blog on why moms need coffee and wine, but it was too vague.  Nothing is vague while raising a wolfbaby and his older brother, Jude who is 4 1/2.  And these are just the toddlers.  I will explain the need for coffee and wine by bulleting the past 24 hours.

-Julian the Wolfbaby sometimes takes a nap after lunch.  Sometimes means that when I lay down and almost fall asleep too, he will pop his head down the stairs and say “Mom, I have to tell you something.”  The Wolfbaby opened his door (which is difficult), took down the baby gate, and played in my room upstairs for an hour before coming down.   I forgot to drink another cup of coffee and had just closed my eyes.

-We took a ride to the animal shelter to see the kitties.  Jude threw up in the van on the way back.  Fish cracker puke on him, his car seat, his backpack, the van, and my purse.  I need another cup of coffee to do 5 loads of laundry to wash out the vomit.  I will need wine to not care that my vehicle smells like vomit and to not replay the scene in my head while I sleep.

-Julian the Wolfbaby likes to stand on the couch and scream at the top of his lungs.  Like shriek.  My eardrums hurt when he hits the perfect note.  Then he giggles.  I need to go to my safe place in my head, which is anywhere with wine, to not react by screaming back.

-Jude now complains that the van smells bad and then glares at me like I did it.  The thought of having wine tonight keeps me from glaring back.  Almost.

-Anytime I feel like sitting down, reading a book, watching tv., or just staring into space, small bodies or toys or sometimes cats or books come flying at me.  I have been hit in the face unexpectedly so many times  that I duck at hibachi grills.  Coffee keeps me from getting black eyes or stitches.

-Julian rides his tricycle inside.  I have to have quick reflexes to avoid having my ankles bashed.  Only another cup of coffee can make me superhuman fast on my feet.

-While I am fairly certain that Julian has never seen a zombie, he likes to pretend to be one.  He says he wants to hug me and then bites my shoulder.  If my toes are easily available he will latch on.  He bites his brother.  He bites his older sister in the butt as she makes a sandwich.  I wonder if wolf pups bite this much.

-Their father likes to bounce them before bed.  This involves throwing them into the air and shouting “BOING, BOING, BOING” very loudly.  Is there enough wine in the world to not jump every time someone yells BOING or POOPERMAN SAVES THE DAY.  And then if I happen to be on the couch that they want to jump to, I get body slammed.  Until this time, I have been able to calm myself, but now some serious PTSD is kicking in.

-After the boys are in their shared room for the night (We have 7-9 people in a 3 bedroom house depending on the day), Jude starts to yell.  The Wolfbaby has crawled under his bed and is making monster noises.  I need that little bit of leftover caffeine to run up the stairs, pull Julian out from under the bed and threaten him.

-A glass of wine takes the edge of the PTSD and allows me to laugh at the ridiculousness of Jude and Julian the Wolfbaby.  Another glass makes me want to sleep because I’m too tired to stay up any longer.  I stumble upstairs and check on the boys one more time because Julian hasn’t learned blankets yet.  I kick something solid in the dark of their room and discover Julian the Wolfbaby asleep face down on the floor.

-A 45 year old should not have children so small and energetic and downright maniacal.  Maybe when I was 20.  Although I seem to remember lots of coffee and wine with the girls too.  It’s all kind of hazey, just the way motherhood is supposed to be.

 

When your cat pees on EVERYTHING

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This is Willow, the little bunny who died in her cage last year of an unknown cause, and Marley, the cat who peed everywhere.  I had to put him down yesterday at the age of 5.  I’m still trying to tell myself that he was miserable.  But I don’t honestly know who was more miserable, me or him.

He started peeing everywhere right after we got him fixed.  The carpet.  Shoes.  Coats.  Anything on the floor.  Beds.  Bags.  I tried getting mad at him and shutting him into the laundry room where the litter was.  He crouched on the floor and looked scared and I felt terrible.  I took him to the vet who said he was peeing the color of cranberry juice from a UTI.  We fixed that with antibiotics, but he still peed.  He also started limping with his right front leg, and holding it up.  And his entire back would twitch.  I don’t know if those things are connected.

The peeing continued when we moved and then got worse.  Anywhere in the basement, in the woodbox, on the floor, in boxes, on things or not on anything at all.  He went back to the vet.  Another UTI and crystals in his urine that scratched all the way out and made him bleed.  More antibiotics.  Anti-anxiety meds that made him creep along the floor like the world was spinning.  He barely moved.  A cat diaper.  Baby diapers.  I changed kitty litters so many times.  It didn’t matter.  He peed on rugs.  More shoes.  The diaper bag.  I watched him back up to the shoe rack with his butt in the air and twitch and attempt to pee.  I put him outside during the day but he hated outside and would wait to pee until he came in.  He started peeing on the stove and if it wasn’t cleaned well enough it would STINK when someone tried to cook something.

We kept all the doors shut.  I was always watching him to see where he would try to go next.  Special food, more special food, expensive food.  More drugs.  Pheremone spray.  Lysol.  Lysol everywhere.  I cleaned the kitty litter constantly.  I watched him pee in the litter box but even if I put him in there he would stand with his tail up and pee on the wall.  My house smelled like pee even when he wasn’t peeing.

And he was sweet, so friendly and soft.  And nice to the babies.  It was yesterday that I couldn’t take it anymore and I don’t think he could either.  I got him out of his kennel and put him outside.  We were both unhappy.  Sometimes there is nothing left to do.  I miss him.

 

 

At the Occupy DNC in Philadelphia: I still Bern.

I have read many other stories about the protests at the DNC, and I want to tell mine too.  It’s a different story because I don’t want to rant about Bernie and Fraud and Hillary and Disrespect.  I do that in my head all day and night.  I want to tell you about Bagel the dog, the sandwich girls, the Philly police, Water Girl, the Chanting Man, and the Bus Driver.

I met Bagel in Marconi Park on Broad Street after walking 3 miles in the 95 degree sun, coming close to vomiting from heat stroke and taking the subway just one stop so as not to die. Bagel was a small dog trailing a leash who wandered around the park meeting and greeting everyone.  For some reason the little dog made me very happy.  Then I had a flashback to high school.  I was waiting outside a classroom door and a tall skinny boy said “He said to leave it and go so I stuffed a BAGEL down my pants.”  In high school I had never heard of a bagel before.  There were many things I had never heard of.  Avocados, blow jobs, conditioner.  I was isolated on a hill in Vermont.  So the closest word to bagel I knew was beagle.  Why would this boy stuff a small dog down his pants?  I pictured this in my head and was really confused.  So a dog named BAGEL makes perfect sense to me.

There was so much LOVE in Marconi.  I loved BAGEL.  I loved the man-children putting up the teepee.  And the boy giving water out.  And most of all the lovely young women in yellow shirts handing out sandwiches.  And not ordinary sandwiches.  Beautiful delicious sandwiches.

If it looked like I was dancing, I wasn’t.  There were stinging vicious flies that kept biting me so I mostly just spent two hours jumping around and waving my arms.  The portapotties were hot and some dude caught site of my ass when I forgot to lock the door.  I was wearing a red Occupy DNC shirt that I bought our “team” mostly so I could keep track of us in crowds.  It was HOT so I decided to change into a tank top I had shoved in my bag, and not wanting to show my ass to anyone else I tried to put it on while still wearing the Occupy shirt.  It seems like when I was younger this would be an easy trick.  NOT.  It’s hard to put on a tank top under a t-shirt when it’s 95 and you are covered in sweat.  I finally untwisted myself and found that I had put it on inside out.  Oh dear lord.

I wondered where everyone was.   There were a few hundred people at the Plaza, but this was just disappointing.  Until someone announced that 10,000 people where headed our way down Broad Street.  I grabbed Gina and her camera and went out to the middle of the 4 lane street.  We could see them a couple of blocks away coming at us like a tsunami.  It was beautiful.  I escaped back to the grass, but Gina stood in the middle of the tide, letting it part in front of her and sweep by.  We grabbed our things and joined them in the march down to FDR.

 

The 51 foot joint passed by.  It was obvious that people were smoking under the joint, in the shade.  I tried to convince the guys to join them, but they wouldn’t.  One would think that would be their dream moment.  Ah, well.  I heard that the police decided not to bother anyone during these marches, not to arrest people for weed.  Not to bother people in the streets.  This was a great decision on their part!  It helped keep the whole thing peaceful.

We made it to FDR and went into the park to sit in the shade, use a hose to take a quick cool shower and made our way over to the fence by the bus station to protest as the delegates walked by.  What I noticed immediately was that the Clinton delegates were expensively dressed with perfect hair and avoided looking at us.  I didn’t see any Bernie delegates, probably because they’d been stranded by the DNC at the convention center at the other side of town.

We saw this beautiful man wearing a flag as a cape.  DSC_0004

 

Vermin Supreme took on the Westboro Baptist Church and won.  There was no violence.  Westboro could not start a fight at our peaceful rally.  I wish I had a picture of the Chanting man, but I don’t.  Our memory cards were full by this time.  (Full of Gina’s selfies, I later found out.)  Gina and I got hot after yelling at the fence for a while and wandered around to look at people.  There was a circle toning and we stopped to watch.  The leader was a gorgeous man with long flowing hair.  Typical hippie wannabe, I thought.   But then they were chanting and I stood still to see what impact this was having.  I could feel the energy from the earth come up through my feet and tingle in my scalp.

A young man from the fence came over and yelled at them that they should be over by the fence doing something.  He obviously didn’t feel what I felt.  It was real.

We went back to the park to cool down again.  Then just as Jill Stein was going to speak under the Green Party tent lighten and thunder rolled in on us.  She asked us to evacuate the park.  The first misting spray was wonderful in the heat.  But then the heavens opened and half the ocean fell on us as we headed for our bus.  We didn’t know where it was parked, the spot kept changing.  So we took off North in hope that we would just somehow run into it.  Blindly trudging through lakes, wiping water from our eyes that stung from the sweat that had accumulated all day, we walked and walked.  By the time we got back to the campsite in New Jersey we were so wet that there was no way to go back into Philly the next day unless we bought new shoes and bags and found at least one dry towel to wrap ourselves in.

The family seemed very happy when I announced that we were instead going to a nice hotel in Connecticut on the ocean.  Sorry Occupy DNC.  If I had dry shoes I would have stayed all week.

Was the downpour a sign?  Was having my house struck by lightening as I was packing a sign?  Where do we go from here?

All I know is that I was at the 2016 March on the DNC!

Bernie’s Revolution and why I am a Berner through the convention and beyond. Hillary’s NH Rally in Portsmouth.

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I made a last minute decision Monday night to drive down to Portsmouth, NH to attend the Bernie Sanders/Hillary Clinton rally.  I have been indecisive all day but then listened to my heart and my heart has been with Bernie since 1990 when I volunteered on his first campaign for Congress.  We stood on an intersection in Essex with HONK FOR BERNIE signs.

So my heart said GO and I cancelled everything and went.I knew he had to endorse her that day to get floor time at the Convention in two weeks.  Or even to be allowed in.  Or to have his delegates go.  The DNC has all the power to keep him out.  Unless of course he gave Hillary a glowing endorsement.  And didn’t say a word to anyone about his future plans for the Convention.

I stood in line for two hours in the sun, after getting up at 3 a.m.  I had to PEE.  This became the most important thing in my head.  Where to pee, how to pee.  If I don’t pee now how long can I hold it.  Will they all laugh at me or feel sorry for me.  I asked Nick to say right where he was in line and said “I have to go to the car for something!”  This was a distraction.  I really just walked back through all the parking lots, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and crawled through pricker bushes to pee behind a tree.  And then looked up to see a rock wall and someone’s backyard in front of me.  A dog started barking but I was already past the point of stopping.  Then I tried to think of a way back out of the bushes and into the parking lot because people kept walking by.  What would they think I was doing in there?  A hippie girl in a Bernie shirt flies out of the bushes and . . .?

It seemed that Hillary’s team had a plan at her rally.  Two hours in the sun.  All water taken away outside the door.  The reservation form for the event said no bags or signs, nothing except car keys and cell phone.  However, the people who had decided not to follow the rules were allowed to bring these things in.  I like to be prepared so I had nothing with me.  Then inside it seemed like they were trying to split us up by telling us which side we could sit on.

Her supporters were not kind.  Now Berners will find each other seats, share signs, hug, high-five, and help each other in any way they can.  The huge smiles on their faces are contagious.  Berners have heart.  Hillary supporters complain if you hold a sign up in the air.  They shush you if you cheer or chant.  They ask you to sit down when you are giving a standing ovation to Bernie.  They order you in an authoritative voice as though you are a child.

There is one more thing I want to say about Hillary supporters.  I am a people watcher.  I am a mental health counselor.  I read people.  I stood in line looking back at the people walking in through the parking lot.  Hillary people tend to be well dressed, have money, care about their hair.  Berners are ordinary normal people.  That tells us all everything we need to know.

Excuse me, I am 45 and an American.  I have the right to do what I want at a rally.  I just ignored the women behind me.

Another hour of no water and I started to feel my heart speed up.  Dehydration became a THING.  Once again, my mind chattered on.  Are you going to faint?  If you walk down from the bleachers to find water will you collapse.  Will Bernie come help you up?  I didn’t think that last one, but I wish I had.  I went to search for water for myself and an older woman.  There was nothing except for a water fountain on the other side of the building.

One thing I did notice and became immediately angry about was that Hillary’s STRONGER TOGETHER slogan was on their signs and her supporters chanted this.  But it’s easy to chant STRONGER together when that means your candidate wins.  It’s easy to chant UNITED when that means we are the ones giving in.  I feel like if they really wanted to unite they would have welcomed Berners and let us have our voice, listened to our concerns, and not tried to compete.  This was not a competition.

I watched Bernie give Hillary the endorsement.  It was heartbreaking to hear him say those words.  He talked about the Revolution and how far we’ve come.  You can watch all of that online.  What I want you to know is that the Berners around me got angry and walked out.  I wanted to stay with my Bernie.  I didn’t want to leave him alone.  It was so hard to watch his face.  He talked about every position that Hillary had agreed to on the issues on his platform.  This was a brilliant way to continue to campaign for his candidacy, to show the power he has, to show how she has to adopt his positions.  I didn’t process that until later.  At the time, I just wanted to hug him.

I thought about leaving as soon as Hillary started speaking.  But I wanted to know what she would say.  I don’t want to be uninformed or informed by the media.  She also listed the positions she has agreed to take.  Some things were missing:  the amount of a minimum wage increase, universal healthcare, veterans . . .

And here’s where things got weird.  VERY WEIRD.  I didn’t realize we were sitting next to the assistant press section.  As the rally ended and I stood there not wanting to faint in the crowd headed toward the door, thinking about how tired, hungry, and thirsty I was and how much I love Bernie the network people and a guy from the Young Turks all approached me and asked me to do interviews.  I was dazed and confused.  That can be the only reason I would agree to anything.  I hate talking and I hate cameras.  I feel like the things I say will come out sounding stupid.  I like to be anonymous.

And somehow I ended up doing a radio clip, saying something to the YT’s I haven’t found online yet.  Doing an interview with ABC, and then doing a panel with 4 other Berner’s in the school library.  Someone told me today that I was on the CBS national news last night as well.

Here are the links so far.  I can’t watch myself.  It freaks me out.

NBC news

ABC News

MSNBC

I don’t know what parts they have cut out of these.  So I am going to say on here what I wanted the nation and Bernie Sanders to hear.

I am with Bernie all the way.  If he wins the nomination I am with him.  If he wants me to vote Hillary in the end, after the Convention, I will do as he asks.  When he forms his Revolution Group I will be there.  If he doesn’t become our next President this isn’t the end.  We have given him POWER in the senate.  I will be there if he asks me to March in Washington when Congress is voting on something important to our cause.  I will help elect other Berners.  Whatever it takes.

To those who are feeling angry or betrayed by the endorsement, I say Stick the Course.  Bernie is smarter than any of us.  He knows the games being played.  He has a plan.  Don’t give up now.  Continue the Revolution!

 

 

The Epic Battle of Nick and The Mingies

Nick took out a flowerbed full of mostly weeds and built a firepit area.  In Vermont.  At the end of May.  On a sunny day with no breeze.  In shorts.  With no bug spray.

I didn’t know I was being bit until that night.

The first of many baffling statements made by one who has not yet assimilated to Vermont’s swampy buggy culture.

His legs look like he has the chicken pox.  It’s been a week and a half.

What bit me?

I made the mistake of telling him that mingies are noseeums, little black insects that are small enough to come in through the screen windows, especially if they see light inside, and that I had to turn off all the lights that night so that I could sit in the livingroom without being eaten alive.

Now every night he closes all the windows and we sit in the dark.  And if he’s itchy at all they must be coming inside, even if I’m next to him and nothing is eating me.  He texts me pictures of mingies and definitions on the internet and recipes for all natural bug repellant.  And he douses himself from head to toe in bug spray every time he leaves the house.  Even on cool windy days.

This is how real Vermonters save themselves from being BUG FEASTS:

  • We walk outside to see what the temperature is, wind speed and direction, humidity, and make a judgment call on how buggy the day is.
  • We spray our hats and jackets, not our entire bodies.
  • We don’t wear shorts when working on projects in long grass.
  • We wait until we see a mingies in our glass of wine and THEN we turn off all the lights.
  • We eat garlic in the summer.
  • We don’t complain about bugs because summer is so short that we don’t want to wish it gone.
  • We show off our bug bites as a badge of hard work.

Sadly, Nick has not learned from this experience and is outside doing something right now without testing the weather or asking a Vermonter.  Vermonters also don’t have sympathy for anyone who should know better.

There’s blood in my POOP

by Guest Writer E.

This was too good not to post.  What story about poop is?

I’ve had raging diarrhea for 4 months now.  I shit when I eat.  I shit when I drive.  I shit so much my butthole hurts.

I changed my diet.  Less carbs.  Less sugar.  No caffeine and no soda.

Then two days ago there was bright red blood in my poop.  And dripping out of my butt.  I made a doctor’s appointment thinking bacterial infection or something.  HELP!  

Because I needed an appointment immediately I got a new doctor I’ve never had before.  She asked the usual questions about diet and exercise.  Then she took a good long look at things down there, lubed her finger and stuck it in.  It was awkward when she swirled it.  But the worst part by far was that MY BUTTHOLE is already red and hurts.  Why would I want anyone near it?

Things only got worse.  She asked about stress.  I told her my mom and dad didn’t have a good relationship and that they divorced when I was 5 and he died recently.  I brought up that I don’t ever orgasm during sex (an issue I ask doctors about and they never give me a good answer).  She asked if my father had ever touched me without permission and then suggested that maybe I was blocking it and stress from that was the reason I can’t orgasm and am having raging diarrhea.

I left with no answers, no help, and a butthole that had been violated.  That’s my day.

 

 

There is not enough coffee in the world to make morning better in a house with 5 kids

I almost cried this morning.  When I almost cry it’s time to blog.

Child #2 popped in to get her Ipad and bag before heading to college.  Her bag was covered in pee.  The cat who is in withdrawal from his anxiety meds because the person who was supposed to refill them put it off for a week and then the vet’s office put it off because it was $10 more than they told us.  Not peeing on everything in my house seems to be worth $35 a month.

The pee was everywhere, on the shoe rack, on the rug by the door, on me.  I carried the bag carefully down to the washing machine to find:

Child #3 had taken my clean laundry out of the dryer while I was working 10 hours yesterday and put it in the basket the cats sleep in by the furnace, which is full of hair and possibly cat vomit.

I tracked child #3 down and demanded she fix this.

Then I opened the washing machine to find the inside covered with black pet litter?  Or poop?  I found Child #3 who said Child #1 washed a doll?  Weird.  Child #1 claimed she never touched the washing machine yesterday, but whatever it was she washed was now in the trash.  I informed her that she was lying and that we both now know this.

I used a baby wipe to wipe out whatever that was and lysol to clean the cat pee on everything else and that’s when:

I started to cry.

Now I have to get ready to go to work and I already want to hide in my room.