1) I really do not know what I would do if I were to lose the majority of my face in a grill explosion or chimpanzee mauling or mistaken identity acid bombing. I think that as a courtesy to others I would need to wear some type of head covering. Because whenever I see stories on TLC about people that survived a fire all I can think is what a complete fucking crock of shit it is that you not only have to live with what has been described as the one of the most painful injuries known to man, one that never completely stops hurting, but on top of it you now look like a fucking monster. That's just bullshit.
2) How long do redwing blackbirds live? Does bird time feel like human time? Is 3 bird years the same as 80 human? I hope so. It already feels like we don't get enough time here, imagine if you were a fucking bird.
3) Why are there no female chefs at Benihana? What do I need to do to become one? I don't want to buy an $875 knife but I'm pretty sure that's got to be a requirement.
4) In public I make a point to not look at my phone while waiting for things even though it feels uncomfortable at first because what really feels uncomfortable to you is being alone with your thoughts and if that's the case then you are already fucked from the get go.
5) The universe is unbelievably mind blowingly crazy. I hate that I cant see it from where I live, not really anyways. I need to get to a place where I can.
6) If someone ever tries to steal my car with my kids in it, I think jumping on the hood and using the screwdriver I need to start keeping in my pocket to smash the windshield will scare the thief enough to pull the car over and run. Out crazy the crazy. It is the only way.
7) I want to know all the different ways to disable different large animals if they are attacking me or someone I love. Or just like even. Like, supposedly you punch a shark in the nose to get it to fuck off. Do you choke out a puma? I mean either way, you're going to get fucked up, but it'd be nice to know the best chance Id have at getting the thing to go away.
8) Where the hell am I supposed to keep my cell phone in my car that wont result in it being flung through the god damn windshield in an accident? In my bra? Because its not very helpful in case of emergency if its 138 yards away in a ditch puddle.
9) I sometimes honestly do not comprehend how any of us survived toddlerhood. Like between acting like a complete asshole that by any other human standard would warrant being left in a cornfield, to knowingly jumping off the bed onto a sideways laundry basket, it really boggles my mind.
10) When I know that severe weather is on the way, I always put on my tennis shoes. I have a storm survival box with food/diapers/water/dog leash/phone charger/band aids/flashlight/radio, etc etc, but you better bet your ass that if your house gets flattened and you need to climb out of wood and cement and glass and nail filled rubble that you're going to be happy you decided to put something solid on your feet instead of a god damn flip flop.
11) I try really hard not to judge the conversations of people at coffee shops. Its difficult.
12) I loath when parents make their small children jog with them. They are fucking 8 years old. They don't need to go for a god damn run. If you are raising them right they should still have the metabolism of a dormouse and wont need to begin jogging until their mid to late nevers. Just knock it off. Put them on their bike for Christs sake.
13) Being a parent is really really hard at times. But kids are awesome. They don't give a fuck. They just live. They are inspiring. Plus taking care of something that completely jump starts your maturity. Its a good thing over all. I recommend it.
14) I love coins and whenever I hold one I think about who touched it and how many places its been and what kind of crazy shit has it seen. Coins are the inanimate flies on the wall of our lives. They probably see all kinds of fucked up shit. On your nightstand could be the nickle that was in the cup holder of OJ as he drove his white bronco into the sunset. I bet coins just naturally become pervs because of all the sex they witness. Also don't you dare ever spend a Sacajawea dollar. They are the closest we have to real treasure and should be treated thusly.
15) I know tacobell isn't real Mexican food but I love it for what it is just as much as I adore authentic Mexican cuisine. B) Taco bell is the fast food establishment that's made me sick the most, yet it remains in my heart and in my craving bank. I got sick off thin mints once when I was like 7 and I cant even smell them without wanting to vom. Black magic TB. You evil temptress.
16) Car horns are for honking. Like, that is their main function. IDK if its a Midwest thing but I'm the only person I know who uses their horn at least every other day. Ive gotten really good at using it for different corrections based on the duration of the beep. I'm honking to let you know you need to get your shit together in some way. No need to thank me.
17) Real life calorie counting is so incredibly depressing I cant believe there are people out there that do not have to do it out of medical necessity that continue to and can actually get out of bed in the morning. Fuck that. Thats why I have a fitbit. I walked 10,000 steps today mother fuckers and burned 2500 calories, I can eat this entire pizza by myself!!! I WILL LIVE FOREVERRRRRRR
18) If you enjoyed this let me know. I could do this shit all night. My brain never stops.
19) Love you love buggies
~Maria
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Sunday, February 8, 2015
A Letter to Moms who keep writing Letters to Other Moms
Dear Moms
I see you sitting there at your laptop wondering what you could write about that has the highest chance of getting your Mommyblog to go viral via Shared Facebook posts. I see you wracking your overtired brain as you think about everything that's been done before in an attempt to put forth something original into the universe. I see you. And I know. I get it. Its hard coming up with things to talk about in regards to parenting and being a mom that haven't already been discussed a million different times in a million different ways. I know. I know. Its ok. Did I say I know already? I know.
But before you decide to write another Letter, to another Mom, that you Saw in a Target, that for the 45 seconds you looked at her seemed frazzled or overwhelmed or pissed off, or exhausted, I just want to tell you a few things:
Mama:
Its ok. The woman you are glimpsing for one brief moment in both of your many moment filled lives doesn't need your internet letter. She just doesn't. The what I can only assume was a pity filled looked that you threw in her general direction as you strolled by with your shit seemingly together doesnt equate to any version of actual real world helpfulness or empathy. The fact that you didn't in that moment give her a knowing look and say something like "what the hell were we thinking, right?" but instead decided to wait to tell her that You Get It via an anonymous internet letter speaks volumes.
I see you getting rageful after that last paragraph Mama, and I get it. You feel I am being unfair, and that you really did want your Letter to come from a place of genuine niceness and understanding. I accept that. I do not think the majority of you are soulless, hate filled cuntboxes. I get that you thought you were doing something nice. I forgive you that.
But Mama, there's something you need to understand. When you write your Letters and every sentence begins with "I", it makes it abundantly clear that the Letter is in fact about "You". Your Letters make it sound like yes, you may have once been like that Other Mom, adrift in a sea of parenting chaos and calamity, but that you have ascended into the Higher Levels of parenting where every tantrum, every wayward tear, every snot filled scream fit in the middle of the grocery store is met with a Buddha like state of calm wherein you have the power to stem the flow with nothing more than a loving glance, and suddenly shit is perfect like in those Jimmy Johns Commercials.
And Mama, that kind of advice/help/commentary isn't in fact helpful. Its annoying. Presuming that every other parent in existence feels the exact same way that you do is a sad and limited way to look at the world. So when I read one of your Letters, and it tells me that "You Get It because my new joy is no longer in taking a long shower and getting dressed up, but in food stained sweatpants and messy buns", I want to reach through my computer and strangle you. You don't tell me what my joy is. If that's your new joy after becoming a parent, awesome. I will never not feel joy and extreme amounts of it when I get to take a 20 min scalding hot shower without any distractions. That shit is my jam. I wish I could eat and sleep in there. Like Kramer did that once time. Fuck.
Also, Dear Mamas, why don't you ever write any letters to Dads? When you see them struggling with kids in public why does that evoke feelings of love and sexiness instead of the self righteous pity the lady with the vagina gets? Listen: We all have bad days in the big wide world of being a parent. Sometimes those days happen when we are in view of other people. But that's the thing--its just one day. In fact, its just one moment in one day. That mom could have been laughing lovingly at a joke her 4 year old said 5 seconds before you came around the corner and saw her with that haggard look on her face. She could be stressed to the max in the store or at the park, but the second she gets home, she snuggles up on the couch with her kids to watch Curious Georges Halloween Boofest for the 5 millionth time, and in that moment, she is really happy. Like beyond blissed out happy, filled with love for the tiny beings clutching her shirt in their tiny fists. You don't see that though. All you see is a brief glimpse into what is the wonderful, horrible, crazy, amazing thing that this woman calls her life.
So stop acting like you Get It or Know. You don't. None of us do really. We are all just trying the best we can with the skills we have. And this incessant string of Dear Mama Letters is as meaningful and real as a Saran wrapped ball of air. You are Gisele Bunchening us all and we cant take anymore. She doesn't need any more help in that regard. She has the whole I'm Better Than You Parenting Game on lock. Because no matter what you say in your Dear Mama Letter, you will never ever be able to top Gisele's Instagram posts. So do us all a favor and hang it up. Ill leave you with some actual Gisele posts to help you see why we need a lot less Bunchening in the world of parenting and a lot more genuine empathy and keeping it real.
Love,
Maria
I see you sitting there at your laptop wondering what you could write about that has the highest chance of getting your Mommyblog to go viral via Shared Facebook posts. I see you wracking your overtired brain as you think about everything that's been done before in an attempt to put forth something original into the universe. I see you. And I know. I get it. Its hard coming up with things to talk about in regards to parenting and being a mom that haven't already been discussed a million different times in a million different ways. I know. I know. Its ok. Did I say I know already? I know.
But before you decide to write another Letter, to another Mom, that you Saw in a Target, that for the 45 seconds you looked at her seemed frazzled or overwhelmed or pissed off, or exhausted, I just want to tell you a few things:
Mama:
Its ok. The woman you are glimpsing for one brief moment in both of your many moment filled lives doesn't need your internet letter. She just doesn't. The what I can only assume was a pity filled looked that you threw in her general direction as you strolled by with your shit seemingly together doesnt equate to any version of actual real world helpfulness or empathy. The fact that you didn't in that moment give her a knowing look and say something like "what the hell were we thinking, right?" but instead decided to wait to tell her that You Get It via an anonymous internet letter speaks volumes.
I see you getting rageful after that last paragraph Mama, and I get it. You feel I am being unfair, and that you really did want your Letter to come from a place of genuine niceness and understanding. I accept that. I do not think the majority of you are soulless, hate filled cuntboxes. I get that you thought you were doing something nice. I forgive you that.
But Mama, there's something you need to understand. When you write your Letters and every sentence begins with "I", it makes it abundantly clear that the Letter is in fact about "You". Your Letters make it sound like yes, you may have once been like that Other Mom, adrift in a sea of parenting chaos and calamity, but that you have ascended into the Higher Levels of parenting where every tantrum, every wayward tear, every snot filled scream fit in the middle of the grocery store is met with a Buddha like state of calm wherein you have the power to stem the flow with nothing more than a loving glance, and suddenly shit is perfect like in those Jimmy Johns Commercials.
So stop acting like you Get It or Know. You don't. None of us do really. We are all just trying the best we can with the skills we have. And this incessant string of Dear Mama Letters is as meaningful and real as a Saran wrapped ball of air. You are Gisele Bunchening us all and we cant take anymore. She doesn't need any more help in that regard. She has the whole I'm Better Than You Parenting Game on lock. Because no matter what you say in your Dear Mama Letter, you will never ever be able to top Gisele's Instagram posts. So do us all a favor and hang it up. Ill leave you with some actual Gisele posts to help you see why we need a lot less Bunchening in the world of parenting and a lot more genuine empathy and keeping it real.
Love,
Maria
I see you there Out of Shape Mama trying to do quick 15 second Planks on your living room floor without being impaled by Legos or jumped on by your "enegertic" toddler. This is me enjoying some Relaxing Baby Yoga near antique furniture on white carpeting with perfect natural lighting and a healthy fruits platter for post workout boost though, so Im not really sure I understand why its so difficult for you to get back in shape post baby ?
Hey Mama in line at the store holding that box of formula. I'm just lounging here calmly breast feeding my LO while my team of stylists makes my already flawless post- baby hair and body ready for an intense day of Baby Yoga. Waiting in lines seems like it would be such a drag !
Hi There Mama whose kid just threw a box of Triscuits at the old man walking behind you at Target. I get that it must be hard having kids that don't just naturally evoke genuine smiles of kindness and love in the revered elderly like the Dalai Lama, but have you tried not saying No so much? That might work better for you and would be sooo much better for your LOs! Just a thought.
Dear Mama pleading with her 15 month old to stop trying to eat wood chips and the cat feces buried under the wood chips at the park: This is me and my tiny baby doing more B.Y. by a babbling brook. I know it seems crazy, but I'm totally able to reach that calming mental state that I need to achieve the most difficult of poses without worrying that my infant is going to get distracted and fall into that stream. Shes takes B.Y. very seriously since meeting the Dalai Lama. Namaste!
I Believe in you. You can do it. Namaste.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
What Sarah Said
Christmas lights, snow falling under a street light at night, the sharp smell of winter, and a Kanye West album have all gotten twisted together in the deep neural pathways of my mind that lead straight to you. I cant think of any of these things independently of the others any more. They have become this whirlwind of sounds and feelings and colors with you sitting calmly at the center. Some of these make sense--you loved the holidays and always practically killed yourself to make sure everything was perfect even though you thought it never was no matter how many times you rearranged the tree. The one night in my adolescence when for the hell of it we decided to go walking around in the dead of winter because we both couldn't bear to sit inside watching the way the snow glimmered in the street lights without becoming a part of it. That was your idea and it made me so happy. Ive tried hard to figure out how an entire hip hop album got thrown into the mix as well. It wasn't even released until 2 years after your death, but somehow its there. Whatever emotions it stirs in me fit in with the themes of cold, darkness, colorful lights, glinting snow, a safe place to return to, that I now associate directly with who you were to me.
The morning you died, the nurse called to tell me to get down there as she thought it might be today. Looking back on it, I have no idea how she knew considering you were your normal lively self. Maybe your vitals were forecasting doom and gloom and she being a student of the secret language of the body could see things I couldn't see. Because you were still you. You weren't sitting feebly in bed with your eyes closed. You were talking, gesturing, joking, bitching about the hospital food. You were never someone I didn't recognize. I am grateful for that in a way. That your spark didn't go out until it was absolutely forced to.
When I close my own eyes and picture that day, I see the bright yellow leaves on a rain soaked street outside your hospital room. The grey clouds that covered everything. There was no sunshine. The wind was blowing and hinting at the coldness and darkness soon to come. And it fit. It fit because it was real and because the emptiness outside reflected the emptiness inside myself.
I will never regret being with you as you died. Watching someone die is the most beautiful and horrible thing. There is a sacredness to it. All I wanted, all I really truly wanted was to make sure you weren't afraid. I didn't want you to be scared to let go. So I spoke softly into your ear all the things I thought would help you be brave. I wonder over and over if you could still hear me at that point. I hope you could.
People tell me you are still around me. That you are in heaven smiling down. That you are Jacks guardian angel. That you went to a better place. I want to believe some of those things. I want to believe that the little things I see as signs that some part of you is still conscious that I am your daughter and that I miss you are actually you trying to reach out to me. But if I'm completely honest, all I can say is I don't know. I don't know if you are really there. Or if whatever is left of your spirit even remembers who I am. Its one of those things that I speak into the wind and have come to accept in the not knowing. For whatever reason, we aren't meant to know all the answers. Maybe we never will. What I do know is this: you taught me how to love. The love I show my children is like a whisper from a time when you were still here. Every kiss, every hug, every spoken Its going to be OK is as if you were still standing behind me. I see you in your grandson's smile. In his feistyness. In his unwillingness to back down. And amidst the frustration I laugh thinking of how much you'd love this kid.
So I will go to the place we laid you to rest. And I will sit on the grass and clean the stone and make sure I bring some really colorful fall arrangement that you wouldn't think was tacky. And I will honor the time we had together and the fact that you were my mother. And I will understand what that actually means for the first time as I think about how I feel about my own children. And I will say thank you. Thank you for being my mother. For giving me life. For loving me unconditionally. For being smart and funny and sarcastic and creative. Thank you for being who you were to me.
The morning you died, the nurse called to tell me to get down there as she thought it might be today. Looking back on it, I have no idea how she knew considering you were your normal lively self. Maybe your vitals were forecasting doom and gloom and she being a student of the secret language of the body could see things I couldn't see. Because you were still you. You weren't sitting feebly in bed with your eyes closed. You were talking, gesturing, joking, bitching about the hospital food. You were never someone I didn't recognize. I am grateful for that in a way. That your spark didn't go out until it was absolutely forced to.
When I close my own eyes and picture that day, I see the bright yellow leaves on a rain soaked street outside your hospital room. The grey clouds that covered everything. There was no sunshine. The wind was blowing and hinting at the coldness and darkness soon to come. And it fit. It fit because it was real and because the emptiness outside reflected the emptiness inside myself.
I will never regret being with you as you died. Watching someone die is the most beautiful and horrible thing. There is a sacredness to it. All I wanted, all I really truly wanted was to make sure you weren't afraid. I didn't want you to be scared to let go. So I spoke softly into your ear all the things I thought would help you be brave. I wonder over and over if you could still hear me at that point. I hope you could.
People tell me you are still around me. That you are in heaven smiling down. That you are Jacks guardian angel. That you went to a better place. I want to believe some of those things. I want to believe that the little things I see as signs that some part of you is still conscious that I am your daughter and that I miss you are actually you trying to reach out to me. But if I'm completely honest, all I can say is I don't know. I don't know if you are really there. Or if whatever is left of your spirit even remembers who I am. Its one of those things that I speak into the wind and have come to accept in the not knowing. For whatever reason, we aren't meant to know all the answers. Maybe we never will. What I do know is this: you taught me how to love. The love I show my children is like a whisper from a time when you were still here. Every kiss, every hug, every spoken Its going to be OK is as if you were still standing behind me. I see you in your grandson's smile. In his feistyness. In his unwillingness to back down. And amidst the frustration I laugh thinking of how much you'd love this kid.
So I will go to the place we laid you to rest. And I will sit on the grass and clean the stone and make sure I bring some really colorful fall arrangement that you wouldn't think was tacky. And I will honor the time we had together and the fact that you were my mother. And I will understand what that actually means for the first time as I think about how I feel about my own children. And I will say thank you. Thank you for being my mother. For giving me life. For loving me unconditionally. For being smart and funny and sarcastic and creative. Thank you for being who you were to me.
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