Birthday Binge

Today is my best friend's birthday.

I think it is rather appropriate that Patrick's birthday falls on Mardi Gras, the most decadent day of the year.

Drop by the Traveling Spotlight and wish him a happy day.

*****

Happy birthday, baby! You should go celebrate with the Cattle Call and $6 Stoli's at Therapy.

Oh, wait.

You're not welcome there anymore.

The hot boys will miss you.

And I miss you too.

I think I'll make some rice tonight in your honor.

MWUAH!

Growing Up Tuna

"Wow! You and Mommy look so different in that picture."

My daughter was talking about the engagement picture that had run in our local newspaper. We have a framed copy of it on a shelf practically hidden by the chairs in our living room.

"Was that before they had color?"

Okay, little Smart Ass. We may look a bit different. I was skinny and my husband had hair. (I MEAN more hair. Yeah. More hair.) But we don't look that much older.

I don't' feel old at all. I know my husband is struggling with his gray hair and the fact that his baby girl is old enough to read on her own. But sometimes, I don't even really feel like a grown-up.

My husband and I were talking about it this weekend. When do you become a grown-up in other people's eyes?

I think I know the answer. It's not fair in the least. But it is the answer none the less.

You're a grown up when you have kids of your own.

I swear the shift in perception changes overnight.

And that sort of makes sense, because when you have a baby, your responsibilities shift and multiply overnight too.

But it wasn't the being-totally-responsible-for-a-tiny-human-being-thing that makes me feel like a grown-up. It is the letting go, and letting that formerly tiny human succeed and fail on her own that has been the turning point.

I had this realization today during my daughter's violin lesson.

The program she's in is based on parent involvement. The parent is considered the home teacher. And I have been an awful teacher this week.

She's struggling to remember her basic technique while learning a new piece, and I've had no patience with her at all. I've been short. I've yelled. I've given up.

But at her lesson today, she played her new piece perfectly.

And it wasn't a reflection of my parenting skills. Or my teaching skills. Or my patience, pride, or love for her.

It wasn't a reflection of my success or failure.

It was all her.

And it will be all her when she plays on stage at her graduation to the next level. It is all her when she doesn't score a goal. And when she cries at swim class. And when she dances at her recital. And when she performs in her play.

It's even all her when she passes her spelling test, no matter how many times we drill her on the words.

I still don't feel old. Even though the gray hair I found on my chin is telling me differently. But I feel more like a grown-up. Because I'm entering a new phase of parenting and I'm relearning the ropes as I go.

Someday I hope to be a grandmother, if for no other reason than that one day her kid will look at a picture of her performing at a recital or playing soccer and ask, "Gee, Mom. Was that before they had digital cameras?"

It will serve her right.

Gay 101

Patrick has me on a rigorous program of exposure to gay culture.

There are so many times when he'll be talking or singing and I have to say, "I have no idea what that means." So he's educating me.

I remember one night at the Cape when he forced me to watch Chicago and Eddie Izzard even though I was exhausted. He set me up in a Clockwork Orange eye-opening device, and then proceeded to fall asleep himself. My gay culture is often accompanied by the soundtrack of his snoring.

But my Lessons in All Things Gay has recently lead me to the movie Trick. Which I loved. (There's a post on straight women/gay men relationships in me somewhere. It's just waiting to mature before it comes out.)

Now I can't stop working, "It burns!" into every conversation. And I can't seem to stop screeching, "Where's the cheese for these goddamned fries!"

He's turning me into the quintessential fag hag against my will.

I just started reading Tales of the City too. But please, please, please don't ask me if I love it yet. Because I don't want to disappoint you. I'm positive that I'll come to love it. I promise.

But I'm such a straight girl. Because this has been my favorite part so far.



Boo yah! Take that, all philandering whores. Score one for happily married couples everywhere.

Pointless Posts, Sparkle and Happy Linking

My husband had to leave town on short notice. He'll be in Vegas for the rest of the week so don't worry for him. You should worry for me though, stuck in this messy house with one child who is overly emotional and one who has clearly been possessed by Satan!

I may have to kill someone this week, and it just might be over a Pop Tart.

But in the meantime and in homage to the master...

Tuna Girl's Online Pointless Fact #1

I never buy the same deodorant twice in a row.

I don't just mean the brand name. I never buy the same type of deodorant twice in a row.

I have no reason for this other than that I like variety.

But I was really looking forward to using up my Soft and Dry solid so I could move on to something fresh.

I chucked it with a few applications left on the stick and eagerly opened my Secret Platinum soft solid fresh shower scent.

Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.

It's the creamy type that squeezes itself up through the holes at the top. Except the plastic top piece popped off and I got deodorant cream everywhere. And I do mean everywhere! (It gives a whole new meaning to creaming your panties.)

My husband picked me up a fresh stick while he was out. I told him to pick any kind. I didn't care.

He picked up a Secret Platinum clear gel. Berry sparkle scent. (My god! It has its own web site!)

I'm wearing deodorant from a glittery package! And I smell like Tinkerbell perfume.

Suddenly I'm 12-years-old again. I'm wearing a size 32B bra, braces, and a facefull of zits. But I'm bopping out to Murray Head and Salt-N-Pepa. So it's all good.

Man! I buy him a deodorant that smells so good it makes me want to get naked, and he buys me teeny bopper sparkle?

I guess he'll be ready to buy my daughter her first hygiene products in a couple of years.

Now I'll just have to teach him about Maxi Pads.

Have you seen those Always Happy Period commercials? Give me a break! (My god! It has its own web site too!)

Creative Minds

As a kid, I had a calligraphied sign on my bedroom door that read, "Creative minds are rarely tidy!"

It was my attempt to rationalize the truly disgusting state of my room.

I hated having a messy room. But I lacked the motivation to do anything about it. It bugged the hell out of me, though.

Now, when my house is a cluttered mess, which is pretty much always the case, it raises my stress level through the roof. I hate being that person. I avoid having people over (and therefore making friends) because I'm embarrassed by my house.

Yesterday, since school was closed, I took my daughter to her violin teacher's house for her lesson.

Now this man is a very well-respected teacher and musician. He gives lessons in his house every day of the week. He has a sign by the door requesting that people remove their shoes. Probably so that the filth of his house won't ruin his student's footwear.

My lord! His house looked like it could be condemned by the health department. And this is not some single man living in a musical genius haze. His wife holds two doctorates and he has a gifted child.

There was literally a path bulldozed through the piles of toys, papers, assorted household crap and food in the living room.

And I'm fascinated by this.

What is it about people that makes some get up at 5:30 every morning to vacuum (like my step-monster-in-law) and other's conduct a business out of a home that could be featured on Ripley's Believe It or Not?

What is it about me that makes me obsess over the (not really all that bad) mess in my house, but only rarely do anything about it?

I'm giving myself a little break here. And I'm letting my kids and husband shoulder some of the blame. And I'm considering taking some writing jobs to be able to afford to hire back my cleaning ladies.

In the meantime, I think I'll hang a sign on my front door.

Creative minds really are rarely tidy!

My Manly Man

Tuna Man: I want to watch the ice dancing tonight.

Me: You want to watch the ice dancing tonight?

Tuna Man: Yeah. You're going to blog this. Aren't you?

Me: Not until you just mentioned it.

I just love this guy.

My Dirty Little Secret

I've been putting my one dollar bills aside. You see, I need them for my Wednesday mornings at the strip show.

The show is held in the basement of the local Methodist church. I have to walk through the church's preschool to get there. It makes me feel a little strange to see all the little kids playing so nicely, when I know that in a few minutes, I'll be seeing grown men and women stripping down.

I pay ten dollars a week to see this show. That's before tips.

I seek out my little registration card and stand in line with all of the other voyeurs with my head held down and my eyes darting.

And then it starts. People step up to the tables. They take off their jacket. Then their shoes. Then the pants, showing off some cute little shorts. Then the tops, revealing strappy little camisoles or undershirts.

And then the organizer tells the stripper, "Okay. Step on the scale."

One little minx last week went so far as to toss off her ball cap and scrunchy. She then lamented loudly, to everyone present, that she had gained .2 pounds. "Probably because I'm so bloated from my period," she announced to the crowd.

Sure, sweetie. We understand. Maybe if you had taken it all off, you would have lost a little. I mean the underwire in your bra alone must weigh at least half a pound.

Let me tell you. Seeing these people, who are so desperate to have the Weight Watchers scale tell them that they have lost weight that they will shed all of their dignity, well, it just makes my week.

As for me. I wear my jeans, sneakers, and long-sleeved shirts with pride. Because if the scale tells me I've lost 2.8 pounds, I want it to be all me, baby.

Now that's hot.

"Stop talking now."

Why do I feel like nobody ever really listens to me?

*crickets chirping*

Oh. That's right.

In the last 24 hours I've been told to "stop talking now" and had a "whatever" sneered at me.

I think I'm just going to be quiet for a while and see if anyone even notices.

Stop the Candy-Coated Insanity!

Was there something about yesterday I was supposed to remember? Is the date February 14 supposed to mean something to me?

Oh, that's right. It was a little day called Valentine's Day.

I don't know if other parents have found this to be true, but once you have kids, Valentine's Day isn't about romance anymore. It is about those stinking little Valentine's.

And I don't know what has happened since I was a kid and saved the special "Be My Valentine" card for the cutest boy in class, but now it is unheard of to distribute Valentine's cards without candy attached.

We bought Valentines, (Hello Kitty for the girls, Batman for the boys, and Koala Brothers for the preschoolers) with lollipops already attached. Except around here they call them suckers. Which is just fucking wrong.

But my kids received more Valentine's Day booty from their friends than I've got from my husband in the last ten year's combined. It's ridiculous. Gift bags full of candy. Whole Nestle Crunch bars. (Do you think he'll notice if it is missing?) Heart-shaped sampler boxes. Even toys and art supplies.

Parents must have spent some serious do-re-mi to get these things for an entire class of children. As my husband asked, "What are they trying to prove?"

Add to it the cookies and treats from their classroom parties and, well...

Little Tuna Boy left chocolate-colored barf on my stairs.

In anticipation of all this sugar overload, I got the kids small toys (a train for him and a My Littlest Pet Shop pet for her) and my husband bought them cards and stickers. And my daughter must have repeated to me, "Thank you, Mom. I love it so much!" at least fifty times yesterday.

I got a hand-written "I love you" on the bottom of a form from school from my daughter. My husband was flying yesterday, but on Monday night he gave me chocolate-covered strawberries and a sweet card.

Thanks to duane's suggestion, I got my husband hockey tickets for Sunday night. We're going to take him to dinner and celebrate his recent award.

I leave you with a little sample of some Valentine's my daughter brought home. Don't these just make you want to--oh I don't know--leave chocolate-colored barf on my stairs?

Fronts


Backs


Now that's putting the Saint back in Saint Valentine's Day.

I Never

Have you ever played that drinking game?

The one where you say, "I never ________." And if you actually have done that thing, you must take a drink.

I've played it, well, a time or two. But I've only played it with actual alcohol once. (Was that the night I knocked a drink out of Patrick's hand while he was hitting on a pair of gorgeous blond guys?)

My college friends added a You Can't Fuck Your Friends rule to the game. In our version, you could only fill in the I Never blank with something that you had actually done.

Who wants to play?

I've never been tied to a bed.

I've never peed myself in public over the age of ten. (Or, um, twenty.)

I've never seen my roommate naked.

I've never pretended to be someone else online.

Who's drinking?

I could get a lot more wild with those, but you've heard it all before. And, theoretically, my husband reads this. And while he knows about all of my wild moments, some of them are better left unmentioned. There's no use in poking the nest.

But never is an interesting word.

There are so many things that I would never do.

I'd never cheat on my husband. I'd never hit my kids.

Those are absolutes. They really will never happen.

But some things I would claim to never do, may be possible given the circumstances.

I'd never jump out of an airplane. I'd never go hunting. I'd never lie to someone I love.

Suppose I end up on the Amazing Race. If I have to jump out of an airplane to win a million dollars to split with someone I love and trust enough to pair up with...well..I'll fucking do it. I'll hate it. But I'll do it.

Or who knows. Maybe I'll be on an aircraft that is going down. If it's jump or die, I'm going to jump.

And while I'd never willingly hunt for sport, if I was in a situation where I had to hunt to survive, I'd do that. Hell, after reading Alive, I'm pretty sure I'd eat people if I had to.

And as far as lying goes...I'd never choose to lie either. But I can foresee situations where it might be the noble, kind, and right thing to do.

Then there are the things that I've done, that I will swear I've never done.

I've never seen or felt a ghost.

Nope. No ghosts. Never. Uh uh. No ghost sightings here.

I've never snooped through someone else's things.

No way. I've never done that. That's awful. Who would do that?

Oh yeah. That's right. Me.

But the best "I nevers" are the things I never thought I would do. But have.

I never thought I'd hit an out-of-the-park home run. I did. And I loved it.

I never thought I'd go rafting on class five rapids. I have. And I loved it.

I never thought I'd own a fluffy, white, yippy, little dog named Buffy. I do. And I love her.

I never thought I'd be a military, stay-at-home wife. I am. And I love it.

I never thought I'd write about my life on the Internet. I never thought I'd meet people from the Web. I never thought I'd make some of the closest friends I've ever had through blogging. I have. And I love them.

It really makes you wonder. Doesn't it? What else am I never going to do? What else am I capable of?

How about you?

What would you never do?

Come on. Fill your glasses. (Coffee will do in a pinch.)

I never ______.

Goodbye, Old Friend

You gave and gave and never asked for anything in return.

And just in time for Saint Valentine's Day too. I guess six years is a good run, though. I wonder if he finally gave up on me because I was lusting after another.

Hmmm. I have another Magic Wand at the Cape house. I wonder if my friend Jerry will ship it to me.

Or, better yet, I wonder if they can express ship the Eroscillator. Now that's a Valentine's Day gift I'd never forget.

One of the Good Ones

UPDATE: Thanks for all the congratulation in the comments, you guys. We really appreciate it.
*****

My husband is in the habit of forwarding me e-mails from work regarding anything he might forget to mention to me. You know the sort of thing. Wives' Coffees, family events, meetings, or pay issues.

Tonight, when he got home from work, I was in an exceptionally bad mood. He's also in the habit of inviting me to come sit on our bed and talk about our days while he gets changed out of his uniform.

I seem to remember walking in our bedroom door and announcing that I had a headache.

"Take some medicine," he told me.

I retorted (okay, I yelled), "You know, that doesn't help me. After all these years I think I know when I need to take medicine!"

He replied with a very calm, "Why don't you lie down and rest?"

That's the last thing I remember until I woke up when he left for his late night hockey game.

So now it's two in the morning and I'm trying to catch up on everything I slept through today. I just opened my e-mail and saw a forwarded message from him.

It's a message that has filtered down through all of his higher-ups announcing that he has won a huge annual award. I mean, seriously, huge.

Just last night I asked him if he had heard of any results and he told me that he thought his nomination probably didn't even get past his group commander. He went off on a tirade about how they don't appreciate the type of work he does.

Apparently, he was wrong. In the best way possible.

He's also being sent up the chain to compete at the next level. A major command level (for those of you who know what that means). This basically means that he's one of the top dozen or so people at what he dose in our branch of the service.

I'm so fucking proud of him.

And I feel awful that I cranked at him this afternoon and slept through an evening when we should have been celebrating.

Regardless, let's hear it for the Tuna Man. He's one of the good guys. And he's able to achieve amazing professional success while still putting his family first.

And that is the most special accomplishment of all.

Some Things Just Shouldn't Be 2-in-1

I spent the entire morning helping forty first graders draw curriculum-specific pictures on quilt squares. And then I babysat them while their teacher went to lunch.

If I have to talk to one more seven-year-old today, I'm going to freaking lose it.

This damn blog has been so mommified lately, it's scary. I definitely need to take a break from all the mom stuff I've been doing and concentrate on the wife stuff for a while.

Wife stuff can be hella fun.

Last night my husband helped me cut out the fifty-something squares of muslin fabric that we needed and iron freezer paper on to the back of them.

"Who knew?" I asked him. "Who knew that you could iron freezer paper on fabric to make quilts?"

"Well, your mother did," he replied. If it wasn't for my mother, I never would have gotten involved in this project in the first place.

"I guess. I never would have imagined it though."

"You need to be more crafty," he told me.

"Ha!" I scoffed. "I have a feeling that women who are into crafts aren't so good in bed."*

"Why's that?" he wanted to know.

"Because if they were good in bed, they'd find better ways to spend their time than with this shit!"

"Like how?" he asked. "Masturbating?"

"Well, yeah!" I replied.

"Or falling asleep while masturbating?"

"Oh, real funny. But wouldn't you rather I masturbate and be all sexual than be obsessed with quilts and scrapbooks and stamps and stuff?" I asked.

"Well, it is less expensive," was his answer.

He hasn't seen the vibrator I have my eye on yet.

But he did ask me about a Valentine's Day gift.

"Would you like some KY 2-in-1 Touch Warming Sensations body massage and personal lubricant for Valentine's Day?" he yelled to me from the bedroom.

And I yelled back, "Oh my GOD! Have you seen that stuff?"

Then I went on a tirade.

"When they first advertised it, is was just as a personal lubricant that could also be used as a massage oil. But then they turned it into this whole 2-in-1 massage oil stuff. Who the hell wants to be massaged with lube? You might as well crack open the Astro-glide or Anal Eze. I've been meaning to blog about this. Who are the women who are buying this stuff?"

"So, is that a no?"

"ACK!"

"It comes in flavors now too. Are you sure you don't want some?" he asked.

"That depends," I told him. "Are you going to give me a great massage?"

"Sure."

"Really?"

"Well, I'll massage one area," he said.

I laughed at him, but now I'm thinking...maybe some Secret Grove wouldn't be so bad after all.
******

*This, of course, does not apply to any craft-loving women (or men,I suppose) who read this blog. No. You are perfect in every way. I'm just jealous of your talent. Really

Kids Today

Today in the pediatrician's office I overheard a kid say to his mother, "But the kids will make fun of me!"

She immediately responded, "No they won't."

And there was a part of me that wanted to scoff at her, "Are you kidding?"

In the past six years, I've learned a whole hell of a lot about kids' bullying and teasing. Too much. And it certainly isn't because my kids are the teasers or bulliers.

And not to sound all superior, but I would never ever reply to "But the kids will make fun of me!" with, "No they won't."

Because they will.

Kids are mean.

I hate kids.

I guess I've always expected kids to make fun of other kids their own age. My daughter has been called a baby, been made fun of for farting, and been accused of lying about everything from where she spent her vacation to the existence of her dog.

She is a prime target for teasing and bullying because she gets really upset very easily.

Now it seems that some fifth grade boys have decided to pick on her.

I'm appalled. I understand that there is a pecking order at school, and kids are going to do anything they can to try and stay on top of that pecking order. But what do ten-year-old boys get out of picking on a little girl?

Isn't that sort of pathetic?

I want to barge in the headmaster's office and demand, "Is this really the kind of school you have here? Are these really the kind of boys you are producing? And why the hell are fifth graders and first graders on the playground at the same time anyway?"

I guess it is especially hard for me to understand because I never was picked on as a kid. There were a few incidents in fifth grade when I was made fun of for wearing a bra. But all I did was give those girls a look, and they never said another word. Besides, even then, I knew that they were just jealous of the attention I was getting.

But my daughter didn't even tell me about the boys. I had to hear it from AH whose kid knows and tells everything.

My regular advice to my daughter when she is being teased is to shrug, say, "Whatever," and walk away. It's funny how much this bugs the other kids.

But my gut instinct is to tell her to handle these things the way I would have as a kid.

"What? You think I'm chubby? Yeah, well, I can lose weight. You'll always be ugly."
"You took my ball? Fine. Here. Let me throw you this rock."
"You keep pulling my hair? That's okay. I'll cut yours off when you least expect it. Now where did I put my scissors."

I'm not sure that I ever said any of those things. But that was my attitude. So insecure kids ran off to find easier prey.

But my kid is that easy prey. And none of those snarky solutions fit her personality. She would never yell back. She would never hit back. It's just not in her. Besides, as my friend pointed out, saying those kinds of things just might get her hit.

It's one of those thousands of parenting situations where the right answer just isn't clear. A friend said to me, "I wish my parents had stepped in when I was a kid." But won't her mommy complaining to the school just reinforce that whole baby thing? And, to a point, she has to learn to deal with this stuff on her own.

The fact that she didn't even tell me about it either means that she feels completely helpless, or it just isn't that big of a deal. She says she just forgot to tell me. And in her world of fairy princesses and unicorns, that's pretty understandable.

Her teacher says that she is very well-liked at school. She is very happy to go every day. In fact, she cried for a half hour today because she had to stay home sick.

I don't really know what to do, and I'm just going to follow her lead for now.

But I can tell you this. I will never ever respond to, "But the kids will pick on me!" with, "No they won't."

Because they will.

I can guarantee it.

The Morning After

We've all been there. I think.

Have you ever woken up in bed and wondered just where you were? Were your pants mysteriously missing and was your underwear around your ankles? Did you feel oddly sated yet panicked? Could you even remember if you came?

I woke up like that this morning. Except I was alone.

How boring do you have to be to fall asleep while getting busy with yourself?

And exactly how long did it take for the batteries to run out?

If it's good enough for Cheap Blue Guitar...

It's good enough for me.

Brian has the best take on the four things meme and the Internet Royalty here.

It's Saturday night and I'm all alone and I just ate two peanut butter sandwiches even after the Weight Watchers bitch called me out for gaining weight in front of everyone and I have a stuffy nose and PMS and you're going to read my four things meme and you're going to like it. Hear that? You're going to take it and you're going to like it, bitch!

I mean...

Here's my take on the four things meme, kind and gentle readers.

Four jobs I've had: Go here for the complete list.
1. Cashier at a grocery store (where I met my future husband)
2. High school softball coach
3. Director of Marketing for a SCUBA magazine
4. Freelance writer

Four places I've lived:
1. Suburb of Boston, MA
2. Albuquerque, NM
3. Pensacola, FL
4. Top secret military base on the bayou

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. Shakespeare in Love
2. The Bourne Identity
3. The Princess Bride
4. Angels in America

Four TV shows I like to watch:
1. Desperate Housewives
2. Grey's Anatomy
3. How I Met Your Mother
4. Will & Grace

Four sites I visit daily:
flickr
Yahoo Horoscopes
The Traveling Spotlight
Site Meter

Four places I'd rather be:
Manhattan
Tampa
London
San Diego

Four people to tag:
I hate this part. I'm so shy!
Traveling Spotlight -- Check
Army Wife -- Check
Suburban Decay -- Check
Adi's Life -- Check

Yeah. Uh huh. Did you like that?

Drama Princess

Today was Closing Morning for my daughter's first grade play.



I'm not quite sure how to sum up the experience other than to say that she was really into it.

All week long, parents and teachers have been stopping me in the parking lot, cornering me in the halls, and calling me on the phone to tell me how amazing, adorable, and expressive she was. "She was so into it," they said again and again. "You have a real performer on your hands!"

Yup. We do. A real drama queen. It might be really cute on the stage, but we have to live with this kid!

I couldn't be more proud of her. She had a blast up there.

"And the Oscar goes too...

Little Tuna Girl for her performance of Narrator Number 2 and Dancing Girl Number 5!"

That Thing I Don't Say Anymore

I have this thing that I say a lot.

And when I say it, I really, really mean it. I do.

But it always makes my husband sigh and it drives Patrick totally bat shit crazy.

I blogged about it once. Probably more than once. It sounds like I was maybe kidding at the time.

I wasn't.

I've decided not to say that thing anymore. But I'm going to type it here one more time for all the world (or all of you at least) to see and judge.

I am the worst mother ever.

Whenever I say it to Patrick, he'll start lecturing me about what a really bad mother is. And I hear him. I do. But I'm not exactly measuring myself against the kind of mother who would beat, starve, and neglect her children. Because they're not mothers at all.

I'm measuring myself against the average, everyday mother who cares enough not to feed her kids junk food, or send them to school when they're sick, or yell at them, or let them develop the same hang ups she has.

And using that measuring stick, well, I fail. A lot.

But I don't know. Something broke through with me recently.

I spent last weekend at a violin workshop. No. I don't play the violin. This was a workshop presented by a violin teacher who wrote a book on how parents can better practice with their children.

It turns out that the author also has a degree in child psychology.

I was dreading spending my weekend in a classroom, but it was totally worth it.

One of the things that he quoted in his speech was that kids don't need perfect parents, or even great parents. "They need ordinarily devoted parents."

His point was that the trade-off between ordinary and trying to be perfect is that we spend so much energy on guilt and stress in the strive for perfection that we negate the good we're trying to do. We corrupt the relationship.

Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding.

I've heard it before, but it never quite hit home so hard. Maybe it is because right before I went to the workshop, Patrick totally lost patience with me and read me the riot act about the perceptions and expectations I have for myself as a parent.

You know what? My being a perfectionist isn't helping my kids one tiny bit.

Since my "light dawns on Marble Head" moment, I've had an exceptionally crappy week.

But I'm trying to remind myself, that I'm here. No matter what. No matter how much I screw up, I'm here. I'm devoted to my children. Enough to sacrifice a huge chunk of my life to them. In fact, to me, it doesn't even feel like a sacrifice. It just feels like what I was meant to do. And it is what makes me happy.

And there is no substitute for me. I am their mother. No matter what. Even my ordinary devotion is more important to their well-being than the extraordinary love of everyone else in their lives combined.

Hell. Add their wonderful father to the mix and they are two very lucky kids.

And I'm not going to say that thing anymore. Even if I think it. Because even in my worse moments I know that no one else can do what I do for my kids.

No one.

I love it!

I saw this over at Water Colour Boy (usually NSFW) and just had to share.

I live in a world of men who came of age to the sights and sounds of Top Gun. In fact, we refer to this generation of aviators as the Top Gun Generation.

And of course, you all know my love of the gays. (I was going to say "homos" there, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't think I'm allowed. But doesn't "the gays" sound weird too? And why is lesbian most often used as a noun but gay is most often used as an adjective? And why am I writing a whole 'nother blog post as a fucked up parenthetical phrase?)

So I think this rendition of Top Gun 2: Brokeback Squadron is just genius. (And clearly, I am not.)