More haikus

My dear old body,
Stop making me wake early
Five AM not cool.

Thirty first birthday
Will be here in a few days
Getting pet robot.

The Daily (and nightly) Battle

Ever since daylight saving time ended, my body has thought 5-6 am is an excellent time to be awake and 9 pm is the perfect time to fall asleep.  Every night, my brain argues that I should at least stay awake long enough to put the kids to bed, but my eyes often decide it's time to close up shop as soon as I can find a seat.  Every morning, my body can't find a comfortable position, and although my brain says that the sun is nowhere near the horizon, the body wins.  I soon find myself shivering in a cold kitchen, fumbling with a kettle and deciding which chores I can quietly complete next.

Last night was Saturday, and although many of my peers found an excuse for a post-Thanksgiving party, I was asleep halfway through an episode of Horrible Histories with my kids.  I attempted to stay awake long enough to find out if Boudica would be making an appearance, but once again my eyes preferred their own lids over anything else.

Teen angst, 11 years later.

Tonight is another one of those nights where I really, really, really should be working on eBay listings, but instead I'm watching late nineties music videos on youtube.  Something about them is mesmerizing.  I don't know if I would call it nostalgia, for there are few memories from my school years I wish to revisit.  The late nineties were horrible for me.  I was the weird kid that everybody had to remind that she was weird just in case she didn't already notice.  A few classmates followed me around and threw rocks at me.  Others waited at the top of the stairs when they saw me at the bottom just so they could spit in the hopes that it would hit me.

I hated my life. Any time I ever complained to an adult, I was met with the cliche that I should enjoy it because these were the best years of my life. I felt that if those would be the best years, that the rest would be horrible and unlivable. It really would have been nice if someone, anyone, would have told me that it would get better.  Angry adolescent Xombea would have hugged the time traveler who told her that there would be a magic place in futureland called Facebook where she could see how pathetic some of her tormentors had become.

At one point, I fantasized about a school shooting.  I never wanted to kill my classmates.  I just wanted to shoot them in a nonessential body part so they could suffer too. My teenage fantasies included shooting off their baby toes while asking, "Oh, does that hurt? Remember me with every step you take."  I wished I could make them feel the way they made me feel every day.  I wanted them to feel it the rest of their lives.

Thanks to my magical interweb box, I can now see that some of the girls who teased me about being pale are now wrinkly with tits like old leather purses, bodies sprinkled with age spots in their early thirties.  Speaking of tits, you may have teased me about my small ones, but they came in useful and now they're not brushing against my navel.  The boys who teased me for being ugly have now lost those looks on which they depended and a few of them have even messaged me to apologize and tell me they secretly wanted to date me way back when but didn't want their friends to know.  Their dreams of professional sports have long since been squashed and they're toiling away at miserable, minimum wage jobs they had deemed themselves too good to work.  Oh, you made fun of me for working at the dollar store in high school?  Have fun working at the gas station, mister superstar.  They may have secretly been miserable back then, too.

I might not be living my dream life, but at least I stayed true to myself.  I'm still the same weird kid with crazy ideas, yet a little less angry.  I no longer want to shoot off anyone's baby toes.  I have a husband, kids, animals, two businesses.  And my paint can.  I'll always have my paint can.  

If my kids go through the same "phase" I went through, I'll be sure to remind them that these aren't the best years of their lives and it should get much, much better.

Parenting is a mosh pit

A lot of people who know me know that I spent a lot of time at metal shows in my younger years. Most of these shows included a mosh pit of some form or another. A lot of us know there are (usually unspoken) rules for a mosh pit and it's not just a bunch of chaos, although to an outsider it probably appears to be a terrifying display of humanity.  Raising children can also appear like a terrifying display of humanity to an outsider of the parenting world.  This article contains the ten general rules of mosh pit etiquette. We're going to compare parenting with a mosh pit today, since I have found there are many similarities between the two.

1. Pick up the fallen.  At many of the shows I attended, the musicians on stage would say, "If someone falls down, you help them back up!"  I often use the same sentence when speaking to my children, especially when they're roughhousing.  We're not here to trample each other.  
2. Hold lost items above your head.   Kids are notorious about losing stuff.  They're also notorious for finding things.  If you find something interesting, please try to bring Mama's attention to it before claiming it as your own and stuffing it into your pocket.  I'm looking at you, Ronin.
3. Playing the sideline comes with responsibility.  Kids, if your brother or sister is doing something potentially dangerous and you're sitting on the sidelines observing and not saying anything about it, you're still partially responsible.
4. Learn your basics. As Jack Spencer so eloquently puts it, "Any sense of format to moshing can easily be tossed out the window depending on the size of the crowd, so often trying to adhere to a style is futile."  Any of the parenting stuff you learned before having kids might not fit your kids.  Things you learned with your first child may not apply to your second.  
5. Know when the pit begins and ends.  Just as you never know exactly when a pit is going to start up, you also never know when a child may start up.  Small children are every bit as unpredictable as a mosh pit.  
6. Throwing things is generally frowned upon.  This should go without saying, right?  
7. Respect that not everyone is there for the pit.  Not everyone is cut out for parenting, so don't encourage your friends to join you in having children.  Also, not everyone in your life will be there for your children.  You can't force them into your child's life and it's really the adult's loss if they're missing out on your awesome kid(s).
8. Try to keep tempo and pace with those around you.  Sometimes you can watch a child for clues that they're going to flip out and work to diffuse the situation.  Sometimes it's a sudden thing and they're set off without warning.  Either way, they should have some occasional lulls where you can catch your breath.
9. Don't make it or take it personal.  With kids, words will often fly (and sometimes body parts) without being meant for anyone in particular.  Sometimes they'll hit you, sometimes they won't.  If your toddler says they hate you, it's not personal.  If your toddler headbutts you in the face while going in for a hug and breaks your glasses, it's still not personal.  They're known for being out of control.  If you take everything personally, you'll be quite a miserable parent.
10. Respect the venue staff.  When you're at home, your child can be as destructive as you want.  When you're in public and your tiny terror is doing his or her thing, please respect those around you and their property.  If your little love is running through a restaurant, disturbing other patrons and tripping the staff, please do your best to diffuse this situation.  Remove the child, distract the child, do your best to calm the child before someone gets hurt.  

Remember, we're all trying to do what's best for our kids.  Why not have a sense of humor about it?

Messy House Haiku

Toys strewn everywhere
Godzilla on Sodor Isle
Watch out for that train!

Tattooed Parents

I'm a parent.  I have tattoos.  I have several tattoos.  I am a tattooed parent. I am also a pierced parent and I like to think I am, coincidentally, a good parent.  Yes, I may look a little different with my various interests strewn across my body.  I like to think that I've made my flesh a little more interesting with my decorations.  I didn't do it to please you.  I didn't do it to offend you.  Honestly, I don't give a diddly what you think about my appearance.  I'm happy in my own skin and I'm teaching my children that those that mind don't matter and those that matter don't mind.  You can tell your children within earshot how tacky you think I look and I can also tell my children quite loudly that it's rude to point out such things.

I know I'm not normal.  I've never been normal.  I once had the urge to fit in around middle school, but, thankfully, it went away.  I'm not raising normal children.  I'm teaching them that it's awesome to be different.  The things that make you special are great.  My oldest child is ridiculously flexible.  My middle child is insanely creative.  My youngest child is an insane little ball of energy that can dream up anything.  They're these amazingly special little people who just may grow up to wear their uniqueness on the outside.

Sleep Deprivation Haiku

Tiny footfalls sound
Followed by cries for bacon
No, it's five o'clock


Precious child sleeping
dreaming of Daniel Tiger
kicks me in the throat