Friday is my birthday, and July 4th is WIL’s 50th birthday. Because of her new and overwhelming tendency to go out and drink herself silly since the death of her husband, I had planned to try and organize a get together for her birthday. A surprise party, if you will. I couldn’t do it the weekend of her birthday since she was going away with one of her Biddies. I couldn’t do it the weekend after her birthday because she’s going camping. So I was going to try and have a “Come to Merry’s Birthday” thing, only to have her show up and have it be for her.
I casually reminded Mr. Wench that Friday was my birthday. He brings it up to WIL that he’d like us all to go out to dinner to celebrate. It’s a tradition. Birthday person gets to pick where.
I got a call from one of WIL’s Biddies today, the one WIL is going away with her birthday weekend, and it put me in a right foul mood. She says to me “WIL told me that Mr. Wench and you and the girls are going out to dinner with her on Friday for your birthday. Well I have 20 people coming out to the bar to surprise her on Friday (they usually leave WIL’s house around 4), and if this ruins your plans for your birthday, I fucking apologize, but I asked her (WIL) if she could have Mr. Wench do it another night.”
I bit my tongue and acquiesced. I’m not happy about it, but WIL would have gone out anyways on Friday if Mr. Wench hadn’t reminded her that it was my birthday.
But oh, dear readers, there’s salt yet to be rubbed in this wound…Biddie then says “If you and Mr. Wench can get a sitter, you’re more than welcome to come out and celebrate with us.” Biddie knows full well that WIL is our only sitter. This is why Mr. Wench and I NEVER go out anymore. WIL always goes out on Mondays, Fridays, and usually Saturdays. I hope my son isn’t born on any of those days, because god forbid his arrival cut into her social life.
Now, I am not mad that her friends wanted to get together and surprise her. I am mad that Biddie felt she had to use that tone with me. I am mad that Biddie’s plans now have completely destroyed Mr. Wench’s and my plans to throw a surprise party for her.
I get it. I am lame because Mr. Wench and I have no social life. We don’t even really get invited anywhere anymore because we can never go. And no one knows it’s because WIL is partying harder that a freshman sorority pledge, they just assume that we must be lame and antisocial. And no, I don’t have anyone else to sit for me. I don’t know anyone enough to trust them with my children, and the people I *do* know would be the ones I’d want to go hang out with.
I am very, very frustrated, hurt, and disappointed. And I can’t help but feel a little resentful of WIL. Yes, she deserves to have a social life, but it’s getting to the point where her social life is being placed ahead of her son and her grandchildren. I was raised to know that family comes first. I don’t skip out on family time to go down shots and act like a fucking retarded party kid when I’m old enough to know better. You can go out and party and not come home shitfaced or having to leave your car at a bar, because even though you say you left it there because there were too many cars between you and your friends, it’s pretty much a given that someone who leaves their car only does it because they’re too plastered to drive. You can have a social life without drinking enough to make your liver cry out “Stop it, for fuck’s sake!”. And I’ve found that friendships based around drinking and being wasted together are tenuous friendships at best.
I’m just so over it. I don’t even want to see WIL on my birthday. My birthday dinner has been moved to Thursday, and I feel bad, because I don’t even want WIL to come. I don’t want to sit there and eat in silence, knowing that her social life comes first now, even above her grandchildren and son. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Devon is starting baseball…t-ball rather, on Monday, and at the insistence of both Mr. Wench and Wench-in-Law, she is getting cleats tomorrow, despite the coach saying she does not need them, as it is merely t-ball, not all-out baseball.
I mentioned that there was a study that cleats on children can contribute to ankle injuries. Mr. Wench rolled his eyes, and Wench in Law laughed. I went out to the car so I wouldn’t cry, and when Mr. Wench came out, she was still laughing. Continue Reading »
I cannot do this. I cannot wake up at 7 am every morning feeling like I’m about to puke my guts up, wrangle my children into clothing, wrestle their hair into ponytails and other cute girly styles, get myself all together and shiz, drop Devon off for the bus, drop Nadine off at her Nana’s, and go to work fighting that horrid *urp*-like feeling I get in the back of my throat. I cannot sit at a desk and be a good little corporate whore when I just want to barf on anyone who looks at me funny. Continue Reading »
They say that every time a life ends, a new one is begun…
Yes, Mr. Wench and I are expecting our third child. Pray for a safe, healthy pregnancy, a smooth labor and delivery, and a perfect, beautiful baby. With a penis. I want a boy.
As long as he/she is healthy, it’s not that important. I won’t be mad if I have another girl, but gosh and golly I really want a boy to even things out.
Our beautiful little blessing’s first evidence of existence…he/she is just what we need to bring us out of the dying season…A little beacon of hope and love.
So my last post did have some humor in it, but this post, probably not so much, as it deals with a very sensitive topic: death.
One of my Achilles’ heels as a mother is shielding my children from hurt. When they are hurt physically, my heart aches, but I can usually Dr. Mom them all better with a band-aid and a kiss. But when they are hurting emotionally, I can’t take that away. There is nothing I can do to ease the pain except love them and hold them while they cry.
I am many things in this life, but first and foremost, I am a mother. I love my children with all my heart and would gladly take a bullet for them. That being said, I am also a very light-hearted mom. I take most things in stride, and I will crack a good joke about motherhood.
Case in point: Nadine is in a very repetitious stage. Everything is repeated ad nauseum, to the point that I begin to think that I’d prefer to listen to a broken record. One night she was going on and on about this fricking Barbie that she wants. And I posted this little gem on Facebook: “I wish I had a mute button for my 2 1/2 year old chatterbox”. Continue Reading »