This story is in our new and not haunted house. My youngest daughter was a baby when we had painted her room pink with baby fairies on the boarder, it was adorable. Now flash forward to a preteen and saying that her room is for a baby. Ummm? ok, (I love your  room but whatever) I take her to the store to pick out her paint and I offer her support and also I say helpful things like “Imagine that color on all of your walls. It will surround you. Do you want to be surrounded by that color?” She picks out a beautiful color that we both agree with.  (I learned my lesson from the last time) I bring the paint home and I am a bit excited for painting. You see painting is the type of home improvement that gives immediate gratification. It is the best feeling in the world to have a fresh coat of paint on the walls. I also should point out that I am 4’7″ tall. I love painting but it is not an easy job for me. It involves a lot of climbing and wiping the paint off of the ceiling because I rarely use the proper tools…like a ladder.

First I have to move the furniture….I am sure everyone has their own method and mine is just sort of the lazy method. I move all of the furniture to the center of the room and go from there. As I started to move furniture I start finding things, “treasures” if you will. I find old toys that were her favorite for a hot second but apparently not liked enough to crawl under her bed for. (I’m not judging because I have shoes under mine that I have sacrificed to appease the monster under my bed) I find half-chewed dog bones and cat toys. I am not impressed by many of these treasures. Every once in a while I will find a toy that makes me say “AWE! I remember you.” But the toys are not really what this story is about. I start to move the dressers from the wall.

My daughter’s dressers were on wheels and I was thrilled because it makes it super easy to move. Then I find out how easy it had been for literally anyone to move (including my children) because I find that my youngest daughter has a hiding spot….

flashback to when she was two years old…we had a leak…leak isn’t even the correct word. I had a waterfall coming out of my light fixture above my kitchen table. I know very little about what to do in this situation. First there is fucking water coming out of where the light is coming out of and my brain melts at what is fucking happening right now. Am I having some sort of fever dream or something? There is a thought in my head and its all warped and sort of confused within the chaos and it says “wAtEr and EleCtriCitY Don’T mIx. TuRn Off thE LigHT!!!” I turn off the light by the switch while holding my breath because I am not sure if I can die from this or not. I didn’t die but the water is still coming out of the light so apparently that didn’t stop it. Next I have to turn off the water. I start to run upstairs to tell whoever was in the shower to turn off the water but then I think maybe I shouldn’t leave the sparking light fixture. But then I am like I will run halfway and then Yell “Turn off the water. Guys, Turn off the Water.” all the while watching the light fixture because I am a real good person to have in an emergency that’s Why. I watch as the water drains onto the table Through the Light. Like I’m still uncertain what the fuck is happening. I finally get through to my son who is showering (he’s obviously showering wrong, I at this point am assuming, because water doesn’t belong flowing from the light) He comes downstairs and (I am not proud of this) I accuse “What the hell were you doing up there? Water is dumping out of the light fixture all over the table. Did you flood the bathroom?”

My son is four years older than my youngest which makes him six. His father travels which puts this pressure on him to be “the man of the house” while his father is gone. My son looks up and sees the water pouring onto the kitchen table through the light and has the same reaction I have “How is it?” he asks followed by “The bathroom isn’t even wet.”

I run upstairs to see that he’s correct the floor is completely dry. I check all of the other rooms and not wet. I run downstairs and yes this is happening. I look at my son and shrug. He (at six I might add) says “I’ll go downstairs and turn off the main water valve.” I follow him because this sounds important and like something that the actual adult in the house should know about. I watch him turn it off and the flooding in my kitchen stops. He then says “Maybe we should call a plumber.” I look at him and blink like yes yes that sounds like a thing, we should call a plumber. (but the only plumber I am familiar with is the one on Sesame street in the “who are the people in your neighborhood” number) So I stand there for a bit thinking how do I get in touch with him? (because is he still a plumber after becoming famous on tv)  My son grabs the house book we got when we first moved in and shows me that there are various numbers in there for services you may need. Ahhh!

I look up plumber….because I can adult….stop judging….I didn’t really know…whatever. I call them and I say “Yes, this is Becki and my light is dripping and I think you can help!” because I am not sure what to say. They ask me if it is an emergency and I was like “Is it an emergency? I don’t know but I don’t think this is safe or something that should be happening.”

“Ma’am if I send someone out tonight you will have to pay extra for an off hours call.”

“How much extra?”

“It’s expensive and, depending on where you are, it could be hours before we can get there.”

Ugh two things you know I don’t like to deal with is  expensive and hassle. I make a snap decision to wait until the morning. I get the kids dressed and we buy jugs of water for our long night. The plumber comes the next morning and he asks if he can cut a hole in the wall in my baby’s room to get to the pipes…I agreed because I just don’t want the house to burn down….the plumbing is fixed and now back to the original story.

My youngest used this hole in the wall (that I had forgotten about because I just put the little square wall back into the hole and carried on with my life) as her secret hiding place. I find things that have been missing like car keys that I had lost, Christmas gifts that I knew I had purchased and thought that I had shipped, and her brother’s star wars toys. (this is what gives mother’s alzheimers, kids hiding shit on you. You wander aimlessly looking for your car keys and you are like ‘they couldn’t just get up and walk away…well yes they can and they get hidden in the fucking plumber hole in the wall) I now know why my husband’s aunt was so pissed and said we NEVER sent her a gift. I was like We most definitely did. That was a phone call my husband can make…because I didn’t know how to tell her that her beautiful stationary spent the last eight years in a plumber’s crack. So any way. I find my car keys to the mini van we no longer own. I asked my little angel when she was two if she knew where my car keys were and like a two year old she said “Shhhh! It’s a secret.”

IT SURE WAS. I look through the plumber’s hole and I have a good chuckle. What a funny little kid she was. I now realize that painting includes wall repair and that is NOT what I am good at. So instead, I paint that small square of wall like a piece of art and frame it and hang it up over the plumber’s crack. It’s very cute actually…It says ‘Sing’ on it. I then make more framed art pieces to go with it…one says ‘Dream’ and one says ‘Dance’. Problem solved. I get back to the room painting and I move the other dresser and this is where I find the REAL treasure. I see that my children have been using the wall behind the rolling dresser as a Chalkboard for pretend school. Where my oldest was obviously the Teacher with her handwriting up as the assignment.

first assignment in my children’s classroom….written on the wall in very faint pencil…the problem read like this: You start out with twenty apples. You give two to your friend and you find that nine have worms how many do you have left to eat.

My son’s answer: None because nine of them have worms and I’m not eating them.

He gets it correct.

The next question: Who was the first President of the United States.

the answer: jorj washenton

He gets that one correct too.

next question: When is thanksgiving?
He answers: we get to eat turky

Guys on the day that I find this, my oldest was in college, my son was in high school and my youngest was too old for fairies. I contemplated keeping this fine treasure on her wall. I ask her if I can. She tells me no. I paint over it with tears in my eyes because I know that this is a part of their childhood that I will never get back. Painting with tears in your eyes is not ideal…but I bet more often than not this is how it’s done because the last time I was painting I cried because I was going to die of cancer.

Any way….moral of my story. First keep a book of essential service numbers at your house in case you have water come out of your light. Or tell your six year old to do it….because where would I have been without him. Next kids can pick out their own paint when they get older than preschool. Another very important moral…let them write on the walls…No I am kidding. Let them be kids as long as you can. Kids grow up way too fast, take your time with them and play with them, explore with them and learn with them. There is so much good that comes from being with your kids, they keep you young and they can bring so much joy. Not everything has to be so serious. Take those answers for example…they were not really perfectly correct but they were perfectly them. My little guys mean everything to me and even though I didn’t keep the writing on the wall I kept it in my heart and forever that is where it will stay. Now go hug your children and tell them that you love who they are.

Lastly if you can’t find your shit check the plumber’s crack it could be in there because apparently it is a secret hiding place.

Until next time when I will write about the joys of having a landlord… 🙂

My husband and I for sometime had two children and were living in a two bedroom duplex. We decided that we needed our own house with more room. We built a beautiful house on an amazing piece of land. When we were building there was an unusual amount of bees in the attic and then it was flies. I noticed, but we were at this point (during the actual building part to save money) living with my in-laws. So I was all like, it’s fine I will name them and they can be our pets. I guess I didn’t let my over-reacting brain do any of the thinking at the time, or perhaps, yester-self was driving the boat full speed ahead. It just never occurred to me (because after I had children I had to give up watching any horror movies all together…my kids were kind of creepy in the middle of the night) that these were all omens about the entity that already resided on this property.

We finally get to move into our home and for the first week my husband took off from work to get settled. It is the BEST feeling owning your own place. We were like the Tanners in Full House (shit, that mom died…we weren’t like them at all) We were like a nice family before the nineties because the nineties were sort of obsessed with Dad’s being single and raising kids with their best friend and brother in law. I remember doing the dishes and I had a dish washer for the first time. I was like “You need a drink kids, let me get you a new cup each time, because we basically have a maid now!” We would put the kids to bed and cuddle on the couch and be HOMEOWNERS together. We made friends with the neighbors, other HOMEOWNERS like ourselves. We would set up cable and trash pick up and get a new telephone number (again it’s the nineties cell phones didn’t exist. Neither did internet but they are coming very soon) like HOMEOWNERS do. We did all of that HOMEOWNER stuff because did I mention we were HOMEOWNERS now? The first day my husband went to work I missed him, but now I could rearrange the furniture the right way because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. (But it was nice that he thought he did and I didn’t want to discourage him) I heard the kids talking in the other room and their voices sounded different, like shit was real serious. Now my kids were not ever the serious type, they, all of them, get that from me. My son just turned two and my oldest was four and so serious isn’t really what I expect. I walk into their play room and they both look shit scared. I thought they broke something or stuck their fingers in the outlet again. (remind me to locate that box with the outlet covers)

My son looks at me and says “I don’t want to live here anymore!” (I’m not going back to that little apartment with the weird landlord….story to come in near future….it’s hilarious but was also my real life)

I look at him and ask “Why not little bug?”

“It’s scary here!” He replies. His older sister nods ferociously.

I, being the girl who is older but still the same level of bravery as I had been when I hid from my dolls, swallow hard and didn’t even want to admit that I felt it too. I am the mom who isn’t supposed to be afraid of pretend things that her kids imagine, great now I have to fucking ask him why he is afraid. Or do I? No I do, definitely, NOT! There is no reason to terrify me too. I am going to adult this shit away. “No, it’s not scary. It’s just new and we have to get used to it that’s all.” I look at the shadows in the room and they are completely normal. I breathe deeply and I say “Do you want me to stay in here with you while you play? Will that make you feel better?” The two cherubs nod their heads and so I play with them. Today we played with play-doh…it gets ground into the carpet. (memo to me throw this house ruining mess maker bullshit away when the kids are sleeping. Maybe they will think the monster, they are currently afraid of, ate it and be too afraid to ask where it went. I’m really an excellent mom problem solving and all of that jazz) That night I put them to bed and they do not want to sleep in their own bedrooms alone (to set this up I have to point out that I allowed my kids to pick the exact paint for their rooms. I brought them to the store they chose the swatches and I bought gallons of their paint. My oldest daughter chose a forrest green that was dark and made the nighttime endless… like light would never set foot in that room, like ever. My son chose this neon bright, uber bright blue for his bedroom and their bathroom was fluorescent yellow (it was a shared bathroom for all of us but they agreed on the yellow and I wasn’t looking for togetherness to end so I just got it…who cares, whatever it’s just paint! Don’t be like me and allow your toddlers and preschoolers to make big decisions it isn’t a good idea.) My son had a huge double window in his room and the light never goes away in his bright ass room. They decide his room is safest and they want to sleep in there together. I don’t care because I also want to go to bed at some point and this whole trying to keep them in their own rooms is exhausting. I sit in the room with them because I will keep them safe. (Little do they know that I am not really the super hero type…i never got to play that role…i will screech…and i will assist from the blue spot on the rug…but i will not be the hero)

As we are in the room my son says “The ghost in my closet is scaring me!” (fuck now it’s scaring me too)

Right, I’m the adult. Say something parental. “There is no ghost in your closet, that’s just your imagination!” I smile because I am kicking ass at being a mom. Until….

“Well, the imagination in my closet is scaring me and I don’t like the way he looks at me!” I do not run screaming from the room sacrificing my children to the scary whatever in my son’s closet

…I deserve a medal, truly I do!

I say “Yup, you all can sleep with mommy tonight!” and I hastily grab the children and whisk them out of that scary room and that fucking whatever is in the closet.

My husband gets home that night and asks “Why are the kids in our bed?”

“Because they are a little afraid of the Haunted House we built!” I say (rationally and calmly I might add) maybe with a hint of scared out of my fucking wits.

“What are you talking about?” he says looking for food that isn’t hot dogs and mac and cheese which is what the kids want for dinner whenever dad isn’t home. (No wonder I have to work out all of the time I’m literally eating cellulite and it’s not even that good.)

“The kids were playing in the play room and they got all weird about it and I had to go in there and sit with them all day….we need to throw out the play-doh by the way. That stuff is absolute garbage and destroying my new carpet. I went in there and I could sense it too, once they told me what they felt, I was all like, yup this place is creepy! I tried to be all like, no it’s all going to be okay because I thought we just needed to get used to this place because it’s all new to us and has different sounds and lighting and all of that. Remember when we were building, though, and we had all of those bees and then flies and OH MY GOD remember when we had the bats in here…”

“It was a bird! One bird was in our house because we had no windows. We didn’t have bats at all!”

“What about the eyes that your son saw in his closet? How are you going to rationalize that your beautiful baby boy saw a demon in his fucking closet?”

“He’s two, Becki, he probably was imagining things.” He keeps looking for food as I am making my case for having the house exorcised before things get worst….I don’t want one of my kids getting sucked into the tv…because I’m not brave like that mom on poltergeist…I’m going to be like “well we tried to be good parents and HOMEOWNERS it wasn’t for us” and I’m going to move the fuck out of here as quick as I can to a nice new house and raise ferrets or something safe like that.

“Do we have any food in this house?” he asks

“So we can lure the monster out of the closet? Do you think that’ll work?” I look at him with hope in my heart.

“You’re insane. No, not…..ugh! Becki, you can’t be getting the kids all frightened with your insanity. There is no monster, demon or anything else in the closet. You need to calm the fuck down.” He looks through the fridge again for a morsel of food.

“Can we at least have a specialist come and check it out?” I ask

“What? What kind of specialist? What are you talking about?” I get up to cook him a burger so that I can coax him to be on my side.

“I don’t know, You went to church. Who did they recommend?” I ask

“I don’t think you know what they do at church!!!!” He’s happier now that I am cooking him food. “I will go upstairs and look in his closet, if I see anything then I will find a specialist tomorrow.”

I am glad that he is taking this seriously. I immediately calm down (more than I already was) He says that there wasn’t anything in there and he put the kids to bed.

“Where the demon can get them? Why don’t you love our children, honey?”

He grimaces and says “I think that the move has freaked you out a little bit. I looked all over up there and it was fine. It looks like a normal house.”

I sleep that night but not well. My oldest sleep walks for the first time and it scares the absolute shit out of me. She walks into my room with her eyes open but the balls are looking into the back of her head and she has this enormous smile on her face and she sticks her face right in mine and says some sort of ridiculous bullshit like “I am glad that rainbows make puppies and I get to pet them with my balloon hands!”

I am not proud of this, but I almost punched her right in her fucking possessed face…but then I was like I don’t think satan would want to pet puppies with his balloon hands and so I gently say “I think you are sleeping honey….go back to bed.” And like a fucking robot she does. (I told you that they were creepy at night time)

I get little sleep and when my husband’s alarm goes off I say “Don’t leave use here alone in this house. It’s not safe.”

“Goodbye Becki! Maybe go outside or go visit with your sister. Don’t sit here making yourself and the kids all worried.” He kisses me and leaves.

He doesn’t love me! He’s a damn liar! Now I have to face this stupid haunted house alone with my poor children. That day was better. We went for a walk and we did go visit my sister. I don’t mention the haunted part because I don’t want her to think that I’m crazy. My son says “I have an imagination in my closet.” and my sister says “That’s nice!” because she doesn’t know the house of horrors that I just built. She doesn’t know that I am probably going to die or lose one of my children to that Fucking closet!!!!

I eventually get more comfortable with this house except when I am completely alone.
Also my badass protective black lab Zoe has taken to barking at a corner of the house. I tell my husband about it and he said that she is just getting old. Old my ass she sees the ghost too. You can’t explain everything away with rational thought Honey. Life doesn’t work that way.

We bought our son a remote control train for Christmas and he loves it. He plays with it all day. In fact I hear him playing with it in the middle of the night. One night I hear him giggling and playing with his train set, except when I go to get him back in bed, I notice that he is already in mine and so is my daughter and that is all of the children that I own. Well who the fuck is playing with the train? Zoe is sleeping at the bottom of my bed and my husband is on the couch in our bedroom because our bed is crowded with knees and elbows.

“Hey!” I try to whisper loudly, “Hey, wake up! Do you hear that?” I see movement out of the corner of my eye and there in my doorway is a little boy with deformed hands looking at me and he smiles and says “I like my train!”

I scream so loudly and terrify that poor little boy away. My children wake up and cry, my husband wakes up and takes this karate stance, which is funny because to my knowledge he doesn’t even know karate. He turns on the light and I am in my bed with crying children and obviously my other ghost child is frightened as well.

I look at my husband and try to tell him to go make sure that the little boy is ok.

“You just had a bad dream.” he says.

“It wasn’t a dream, just go see if you can find him. I scared him. He hurt his hands and now I’ve scared him.” I start moving about the room and I go into my son’s room and the train is just sitting there on the tracks.

“Maybe you should go get some rest.” My husband tells me.

I call to the little boy “I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m glad you like the trains.”

That train goes off at various and assorted times throughout the next few months. My husband tries to find the source of the problem. He even goes as far as taking the batteries out of the damned thing. We were downstairs on a weekend and that train goes off. My husband looks as pale as a ghost and says “I took the batteries out! That should’ve worked. ” NOT WITH GHOSTS THOUGH!

I nodded and say “Go see if it is the little boy. See if you can see him.”

My husband sneaks upstairs to catch a peek of the ghost boy and never does admit that he saw him. The next day my husband tells me that at engineering school they have an assignment to fix a defected product “I was thinking that train would be perfect for it. We are going to take it apart and find out why it keeps going off even without batteries.”

I nod my head because at this point it freaks me out that damned battery-less train going off all hours of the day and night. I am also sad because it makes my new ghost boy happy and he deserves to be happy.

A few months later my husband comes home with a piece of furniture that belonged to his dead uncle. It wreaks of cigarettes and he puts it up in our bedroom. I want nothing to do with this old filthy smelly piece of junk. My husband is already super attached to it. I think it’s horrible and I don’t want it in our bedroom. MY son was asleep in his own bed but he has the stomach bug…poor guy. My daughter doesn’t ever sleep in her bedroom because it is dark as fuck in there. So she is sleeping on the couch in our bedroom.

My husband and I are talking about why I hate that smoke casket that he brought home and why it definitely is NOT staying in my bedroom where it will suck the fucking air out of….when a door slams and my daughter starts screaming. We both jump up and run upstairs. I in the lead because I’m pissed about that large cigar box my husband brought home to pretend like it’s a antique piece of furniture. I’m pretty certain it’s where good air goes to die… I try to open the door and it won’t budge. My daughter is screaming, the door opens for a second so that I get a glimpse of what was going on. She was standing on my bed screaming…the oscillating fan was spinning around in circles and then the door slams shut in my face and locks again. My husband runs through the bright AF bathroom that is attached to our bedroom as well and he picks up my daughter and brings her out of the bedroom. He looks nervous but trying to downplay the entire fear fest we just lived through and says “You can’t lock yourself in there silly.”

She looked at me and said “I didn’t!”

“I believe you. That was scary huh!” I turn to my husband and say “Get that fucking haunted coffin out of my fucking house, TONIGHT!” I grab my daughter and I take her to her room where we both sleep soundly for the night.

We live in this house long after this episode and that was the last time this dramatic frightful nonsense happens. My friend or maybe it was my sister say it’s because I showed the spirits who the boss of my house was. Up until that night I was afraid, but that night I was angry and I put my foot down. We saw the little boy every once in a while but he was nice. That other menacing spirit did not ever mess with us after I used my angry outside voice.

We only stayed in that house for two years before my husband got a new job and we had to move. I was sad saying goodbye to that house and to my other little ghost boy. That house went on the market quite a few times after we left. I don’t know whether it’s still haunted or if the spirits eventually settled down. My new home is peaceful and I never once was afraid to be alone in it.

Oh and as for the train set I recently asked my husband if he ever figured out what was wrong with it and his response was “I didn’t have a project for that. I brought it to work and threw it in the trash compactor. That fucking thing scared the hell out of me.”

I knew I wasn’t crazy!!!

Moral of my story: If you are building a house and it has a plague of bees and then flies, don’t let that shit go, have a specialist come and check it out. Luckily there are billions of sources to choose from now…back then I was on my own. If you do think there is a spirit there tell it to get the fuck out…show it who the boss is. Another moral don’t let your kids pick out paint….give them pre-approved choices because we had to paint all of the rooms again before selling. Apparently it wasn’t “MARKETABLE”. And lastly I was not crazy after all!

Until next time when I talk about repainting my youngest daughter’s room and the treasures that were found. 🙂

This story is about my offspring and being their mother. In this particular story I only had two children at the time. The third was just a glimmer of hope and a distant dream. My oldest daughter was a preschooler and four years old and my son was only two. I had a schedule that I had to adhere to every day. I was not really a regimented person before I had kids and yet after I had them my life was all about being responsible and schedules. Along with having the kids, we also had pets that I was responsible for. One in particular was my son’s best friend his beagle pup named Jewel. Jewel was his Christmas gift from us. She was black and white and loyal. (she reminded me of snoopy) I would send him and Jewel in the backyard to play. They would be walking side by side, he in his red ball cap and Jewel bounding (she would leap as she walked next to him, it was adorable) ever his faithful sidekick.

This particular morning I had gotten everyone their breakfast and I worked out. Now I had time to shower, get the kids lunch and bring my oldest to her preschool class. I ask the kids what movie they wanted to watch (don’t judge me Barney was a fantastic babysitter) they couldn’t watch anything violent like sharp tooth or scar (because it made my son bite his sister). They agreed on an educational film about the alphabet, probably. I put it in the VCR (you’re old), started it up and headed up for my shower with the door ajar so I can hear if someone starts screaming. I get out of my shower and as I am drying off I hear them laughing and talking. I smile at myself because it is the best sound in the world when your kids are getting along. I get dressed, I brush my teeth and hair. I only hear happy noises (its a testament of what a great parent I am, really) I blow-dry my hair and do my makeup. I am right on time…I even have time to make them a nice lunch. As I descend the staircase I am hearing laughing and my oldest is asking this very alarming question of her TWO year old brother “Are you giving your dog a bath? Are you giving your dog a bath?”

My heart starts slamming in my chest (I knew I wasn’t a good mother, fuck me) I flew down the stairs in record time (This should really be in the Olympics…responding to your kids doing shit they aren’t supposed to) and I quickly and yet cautiously head into the KITCHEN to where the “bath” is taking place. I walk over to the crime scene as anyone would when a disturbing crime is actually taking place and there is my son rubbing fucking CRISCO all over his dog. CRISCO!!!! Yes, let that sink in….my shortening in my Lazy Susan (maybe Susan should have gotten off of her lazy ass to prevent this fucking catastrophe in the first place) being rubbed all over his dog. My son has it all over him and the coach for this sport is standing there trying to look all innocent with greasy hands and face….my oldest child….acting as if she just stumbled upon the scene! I look at them and then the time and now my leisure shower seems incredibly self indulgent. Now I have to find a way to clean them up, give them lunch and get my daughter to school on time.

I’m doing the math in my head as I am stripping them of clothes and shoving them all into the shower. I say “Start soaping up!” I run downstairs and make PB&Js for everyone. I put them in bags because now we have to eat in the car (I know, honey, that you said we can’t be eating in the car. But what You don’t understand is that sometimes its unavoidable. Like when they give the dog a bath in crisco) I hear them yelling and I run upstairs, the wet dog is loose, and also greased, so you can’t fucking catch her. I get a good enough hold of her and I bring her back to the community shower for all of the inmates. I peer in to see how things are shaping up.

Here’s the thing about Crisco……It’s waterproof. Meaning the kids are standing in the shower and the water is just slipping straight down the drain. My kids are soaping up but it’s not helping because they are waterproof. Oh for the Love of all things Holy what in the Hell is a mother to do now. I make a snap decision and jump in with them. I start lathering everyone up, the kids, the dog and what I notice now is that a crisco transfer is happening. Instead of the kids getting cleaner I am just getting more and more greasy. Are you fucking kidding me right now? I accept my defeat as it is and turn off the shower. (I know! I hear you, but you see I didn’t know about the dawn trick because this was the nineties when the oil spills went uncovered on the mainstream media and that commercial with the grease duckling didn’t exist)

I get my greasy kids dressed. I take the greasy dog too, because my day now involves a trip to the vet to see if this is harmful to her. I dole out the pb&js and head to the preschool. I walk in soaking wet hair….makeup smeared and I say “Hey, at recess time can you make sure she isn’t in direct sunlight? I don’t want her to get cooked.” (because she decided to dress like fucking fried chicken today because she is a little asshole) They give me that smile with sadness in their eyes like they always do. I kiss my little asshole goodbye and tell her that I love her. (I really do love her. My children mean everything to me…even when they have defeated me with a huge tub of crisco)

I now drive straight to the vets with no appointment. Our Veterinarian is cool (I also think he may sniff ether when no one is looking) but he is old school (I was a young twenty-something and this guy was in his sixties) and he knows the ins and outs of pet care. He also isn’t judgmental when you show up greased with your greased son and your equally greased (actually she was the most greased because it was her crisco bath) dog. He looks at me and laughs, he says “Nope, she is going to be fine. She might have the shits for a while but it’ll work through her.” he gave me a prescription for ipecac and sends me on my way with this nugget of wisdom “It’ll have to come out one way or the other.”

I drive home both shameful and relieved. I unbuckle my son’s carseat and realized that the dog ate my sandwich, plastic bag and all. I really wasn’t hungry but I didn’t think plastic was on my dog’s diet. I pick up the slobbered baggie with the sandwich remnants in it and I throw it in the trash. Once I am home I get an assessment of the real damage done to my kitchen. There was Lazy Susan sitting there wide open (should’ve called her easy Susan) and the mostly gone tub of Crisco with dog hair decorating the contents and the rim. The floor was slippery and so wasn’t the cupboards and the counter top. (so if you slipped, anything that you were going to grab onto to break your fall was going to fail to help you in your demise) I use dish soap (it’s Dawn but It was on sale and I still make no connection) I clean it up as best as I can and it is now time to pick up my daughter from preschool.

We all pile in the car, dog included because I am afraid to leave her alone. I get to the school, all of the kids run over to pet the dog. They all make comments like “EWWW! She’s all slimy!” Whatever, little kids, you don’t know me! You don’t know my life!

As I was driving home I was talking to my daughter about her day. The conversation stops because at this moment there is the MOST retched smell wafting in my airspace and I start to gag and my eyes water. My daughter yells “EWWWW! I think he pooped his pants.”

followed by “I didn’t poop my pants! I didn’t! Mom, roll down the windows. It smells bad in here.”

flashback sequence: its in black and white now because that’s how we remember apparently, to the vet saying in slow motion for dramatic affect “SHE MIGHT HAVE THE SHIIIIIITTTTTTTS!!!!!”

The dog did have the shits…all over my car. So when I got home that was the second mess I had to clean up, on this fuckfest of a day and that wasn’t any easier. I was gagging and retching and taking breaks in between to get lungs full of fresh air. The kids are inside watching tv and having snack and hopefully not giving the dog another crisco bath. I threw it out but there may have been another tub of it in the Lazy asshole (who is the absolute worst because how do you babyproof that easy bitch). I get the car to smell less like a turd on wheels and I go inside to take my third shower for the day. I look in the living room and there they all were sound asleep on the couch all curled up, including the exploding diarrhea dog. Sweet little bastards! I climb the stairs like a soldier home from battle (don’t judge me that was hell and you know it) I look at my reflection and I was like “people saw me like this today and I don’t even care.” my hair was a mess of tangles and curls, my makeup was all smeared because of the water, the crisco and gagging tears. I was a hot mess! I probably smelled like dog shit and failure. I climbed in the shower and lathered up as best I could. I get out of the shower and check again on the kids. They are still asleep, thank the holy spirit! I get myself dressed and I finish cleaning the house. It looked like a hazardous waste dump.

When my husband strolls in after his long day at work, where right now I’m guessing where they manufacture rainbows and adult conversations, and tells me about his rough day. He doesn’t ask me how my day was he just wants to sit and relax. That’s ok because I don’t want to tell him about my day. This fuckfest is behind me now, why poke at it?

“Becki, the dog just shit on the carpet!” of course she did. (Hey, the rest of the baggie she ate. Perfect, one less thing to worry about!)

disclaimer: no dogs were harmed in the making of this story. She lived a full life and was loved every single day of it!

disclaimer II: as I wrote this story my dog (different dog) was farting in the background to help me conjure up the memories of the dog shit smell! Shout out to Princess the flatulent pup! Thank you for the inspiration!

There is no need to write a moral to this story….you see where I went wrong.

Until next time 🙂

Growing up my family didn’t have a lot of money. I being a girly girl wanted every doll known to mankind. Christmas catalogs were my favorite books to interact with. (this was internet-esque for all of you young people) My Christmas lists always included the latest and greatest dolls (ones that wet their pants, ones that cried, ones that talked and ones that crawled) I got the one that crawled for my gift one year and in my stocking I got a smaller wind up version. When I got the smaller one I was thrilled and a little disappointed because I thought that meant I wasn’t getting the larger one. You see I will tell you that I wanted a “BARBIE” doll too, but I got the generic version the “Darbie” (I don’t know if that was her name but for the sake of this story it is.) doll and I knew that this was just the way things went because we didn’t have the money. (i also believed that Santa’s elves made this shit and Darbie was a knockoff made by elves, i had a sharp sense of trademark secrets and Santa didn’t want to get sued.) So, back to my story, I opened up this gift and realized that Santa gave me the crawling doll (i guess he started a deal with Mattel toys and the real Barbie will be on next year’s list for sure) I was in LOVE with my doll. I watched her crawl everywhere. (what i am about to tell you is not, in any way, a testament on what type of parent i would grow up to be) I got a little bored with this doll so I started to make her crawl off of things…. like first she accidentally crawled off the couch. (she didn’t cry because she wasn’t the crying one) Then a lightbulb went off…I was going stage little accidents for my poor baby so that I could save her.

First she crawled off of my bed. “Oh No, Poor baby! Don’t worry mommy’s here!” I would fuss over her.

Then she crawled off of my dresser, “Oh Dear, little one how did you get up there?” (i put her up there, but that wasn’t the point)

Then she crawled off the stairs and fell down them and sat at the bottom upside down still moving in the crawling motion and smile on her painted plastic face. “Oh My Goodness, you have go to be more careful.”

Then she crawled under the car…into the doghouse…down the hill in the backyard…and eventually this doll looked like she had been living in a dumpster. Her hair was out of the pig tail and yet oddly still stick up. Her skin was all dirty and one off her eyes was sort of scraped off. I owned this doll for about a year and she looked well played with. The smaller one got little use, but I did play with her as well, she was just smaller and more delicate. I didn’t want her to get hurt. (clearly playing favorites I just don’t know which one WAS the favorite)

It was summer now and my Grandmother was visiting. I loved my Grandmother because she was no nonsense, whereas I was one hundred percent nonsense. She and I got along great. I was an absolute dreamer and I think my Grandmother truly appreciated that. She on the other hand had nine kids and lived on a farm…she was “one tough bird”…as my father would say. She took a shot of whiskey every night before she went to bed…if she didn’t have whiskey it was NyQuil and if I was sleeping with her (MOM close your eyes) I got one too. Otherwise I would stay up all night asking her questions. (yes, I was that kid…still am, it drives my husband crazy) If I woke up from a nightmare she would say to me in her gruff manor “Well you put that mare back in her barn and tell her to go to sleep!” somehow this would comfort me…it also would make me laugh because it made no sense. If I asked her what it meant she said things like “You better get your little ass out into the country, you don’t want to be a city slicker your whole life, do ya?” Again I had no clue what the hell she was saying but I would laugh and laugh. She one time told my parents that “Becki might actually grow if you cut off some of that Goddamned hair.” She was folksy like that.

My sister and I were home with Grandma. We were excited because we were going to go down to “the dump road” to pick berries (yes…I do mean down by the town dump! As in the garbage dump, the berries grew rather well down there) and then we were going to bake something. I couldn’t wait. I put on my flip-flops, which were our summer shoes, and off we went. I got in a little trouble for walking slow. I sped up to a brisk jog to keep up with my grandmother. My sister and I decided that we should sing on our journey. My Grandmother decided that we should NOT. She would say things like “Don’t pick the green ones because they aren’t ready.” or “Don’t tip your bowl because you are going to lose your berries.” and my personally favorite “Don’t be eating all of those berries, Becki, or you will get a bellyache.” We picked until the bushes were clean of ripe berries and headed home.

“Becki, did you eat all of your berries?” Grandma asked

My berry juice covered face telling the truth as I lied, “No, I must have a hole in my bowl.” I smiled with blackberry stained teeth, seeds all stuck in between. She smiled and took my bowl and dumped it into hers. “So you don’t spill anymore.” she said. She patted my head and said “You might want to brush this rats nest on top of your head!”

I giggled.

“Rats don’t live in nests….thats birds you’re thinking of Grandma.” She chuckled and called me her little City slicker.

One time I called her a farm slicker….because I really didn’t understand what a city slicker was…things got serious and she told me if I ever said it again she would slap my little ass and see if I thought I was funny then. I did Not ever call her a farm slicker after that.

We get home and the house is empty…we know its empty because the boys all went swimming at a friend’s house. I get the colander out to wash the berries. My sister and my grandmother search together for a recipe and ask me if I wanted blackberry pie or blackberry muffins. I being the sensible one said “Both!” and we measure the berries to see if we have enough for both. I was sitting at the kitchen table which is at the end of the hallway. The hallway leads to my bedroom that I share with my sister. We were sitting and laughing with Grandma when all of sudden I hear something. My sister hears it too and we both turn slowly to see what on Earth was making that noise.

What we saw was only something that could be conjured straight out of our nightmares. There crawling down the hallway was my two dolls. The first one, all dirty and scraped up with one pigtail and a mess of hair at the other side of her head, crawling straight toward me. I start screaming and crying and overreacting in every possible way. I at one point was under the table and I’m pretty certain I pulled in the chair behind me for extra protection. I also was pushing my sister out of my hiding spot because I honestly thought this doll was coming to get revenge on me for staging all of those accidents. Maybe her doll brain finally realized that it was me all along. She understood that I was a terrible doll mother.

As I was shaking under the table like the true braveheart that I am. My Grandmother grabs a pot full of ice cold water…muttering to herself “You Goddamned fools…. Messing around with me…I’ll teach you a lesson!” She walks down the hallway past the possessed dolls straight into my bedroom. We hear a commotion, the splash of water and the sound of people hollering. “You think you boys are so Goddamned clever. You scared your two sisters out of their wits and they don’t got a lot to work with. Now you go out there and apologize to them.”

The boys walk out of the bedroom all soaking wet and said halfheartedly in unison “Sorry!”

Grandma hands them each a towel and says “Now go clean up that water, that’ll teach you not to do it again.” She looks at us and says, “I think we have enough berries to make both.” she goes back to work baking. I crawl out from under the table not certain what the hell just happened. I then start laughing. My Grandma “Don’t go getting all silly on me. You were just shaking under the table. OoOH OOOH, Grandma our dolls came to life!” I look at Grandma and I know that she is picking on me but I don’t care. I hug her and said “I love you Grandma.”

She hugs me back and says “Get back to work!” she is smiling and I know that she loves me too. After dinner that night we had pie and muffins. I asked Grandma if I could sleep with her. She says that I could. We go upstairs and she takes out her NyQuil and takes her shot as I was eyeballing her. She laughs and hands me mine. Swig of NyQuil and off to sleep we go. I slept so soundly that night next to the bravest woman I would ever know. I know that she didn’t actually save us from anything, but to me she was a hero. I have fond memories of that tough old bird. Some of them, most of them, came with her catch phrase “How about I slap your little ass, see if you think your so funny, then?” Awe grandmas always being played out in books as some sweet innocent character. My grandma was a badass mofo. She wasn’t taking no shit from anybody. This little city slicker lives out in the country near Amish now and I do love the country. I hope I do my Grandma proud. I have one daughter that rides horses and has my grandmother’s badass demeanor. I have another daughter who loves to bake. My son he is as brave and clever as my grandmother. You see grandma she is with me every single day.

Moral of my story, first don’t ever get those crawling dolls for your kids, cuz when they come to life, that shit’s scary. Second, if you do get your kids those crawling dolls teach them to be nicer to them. Third, don’t ever underestimate grandma, yours any any other. Fourth, NyQuil isn’t great to give to kids just so that they sleep. I actually think that it was terrible. I hated the taste…I just drank it because grandma did….I thought it would make me braver. (disclaimer, NyQuil does Not make you brave)

Until next time when I talk a little bit about being a parent…not like I was to my dolls…I was a better mom to people. 🙂

This morning was my six month breast cancer screening complete with Mammogram and Ultrasound on a complex cyst. Now I first want to point out that this is simply MY STORY and that I am in no way medically stating that this is the norm or even what will or will not happen to you. Again I find things like having your breast smooshed flat by a woman asking “Are you comfortable like that?” (she is asking only, you may be uncomfortable but she is still going to do it this way.) humorous and slightly overwhelmingly emotional. So, the thing about me, if there is going to be an emotion I choose happy..or happy adjacent with hilarious or even mildly funny. So let us start from the beginning as to what brought me here to this sterile room wearing an oversized robe and being asked if I’m comfortable as my ninny is being squeezed in a vice.

I was twenty eight years old and in a typical routine check up with my doctor. She is such a lovely woman that I immediately am both uncomfortable and flattered when she asks if it is ok to check my breasts for lumps. “Well, if you want to!” I think. I nod and we get down to it. She is talking to me about things so that we both don’t think it’s weird that she is touching my breasts and she abruptly stops talking and closes her eyes. She starts to really concentrate on this one spot. She asks “Have you ever felt this before?” Ugh, I know self exams on breasts is sort of important, but at this time I have three kids under the age of ten and I didn’t get a lot of alone time to feel myself up. I gulp (probably audibly) and shrug.

“I never felt anything before.” I say. because i haven’t been looking i whisper in my swirling head.

“Well take your fingertips and touch right here.” she draws my hand toward the spot and damn it, yup a fucking lump. Not a large lump just a little smooth lump and it is simply there.

“You should have that checked out by a specialist….really great surgeon….I’ll give you a referral….really should get a mammogram first….it will be okay. Any questions?” My head was swimming with all of this information. My youngest daughter is one and I immediately give myself the death sentence and think “My babies are going to grow up without a mother.”

I get my papers, referrals, mammogram slip and a reassuring smile, “I just would rather have it checked out.”

This paperwork weighed a thousand pounds and I don’t know what to think. My mind was drawing a blank. I at this moment in time can honestly tell you that this is not what I had expected today. I get in my car and sit behind the wheel with shock and a single tear slips away from my eye. There I was this young mom with three little kids with a dumb lump in her breast. My image of Debra Winger in ‘Terms of Endearment’ comes to mind…I’m going to be that mother…the one who dies young and I am still carrying that extra twenty pounds of baby weight…I meant to lose the weight first before my death…why doesn’t anything ever go as planned? I start my car and drive to the babysitter’s house. She is friendly and wants to talk, I do not. I want my baby and I want to go home and I want to sit with my child in my lap and be depressed. Please stop talking to me now so that I can get back to my depression.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I just have a lot to get done before I get my son off of the bus.” He’s in kindergarten and he comes home at lunch time. I had a perfect excuse and she lets me leave.

I get home and my phone is ringing. It’s the imaging center calling to make my appointment for my first ever mammogram. Then I get that scheduled and then I call the specialist. The baby had fallen asleep on the way home from the sitters so it is the perfect time to get this all done. I go to my baby’s room where she is sleeping and I watch her. She is perfection.

The day arrives for my mammogram and I go to the hospital imaging center and sit and wait my turn…which takes forever because they have emergency imaging that they have to take care of before they look at my pea sized lump. I finally get called back to disrobe and put on the very flattering gown that was pink to remind me that I am a girl and I have boobs that are causing my problem. You see if I was a boy I would more than likely Not be here. Men are less likely (although it can happen) to get breast cancer. The girl asks me where the lump is she feels around for it and then tapes a fucking ballbearing to it. “So it shows us what to look for.” she explains. (this was back in the cave ages when we subjected women to such things…after this the bloodletting and a script for leaches)

I go in and I am too small (not my jugs those are huge cuz I am fat) to reach the machine so she further embarrasses me by bringing me a step stool. Now when she did this I was all like “what if I slip off of the step stool and am hanging by my titty in that God forsaken clamp. What if that ballbearing gets permanently embedded in my skin.” and I, horrified by my own thoughts, start to giggle. The woman says to me “You can’t move. Now we need to start all over.”

“I’m sorry.” I say and really try to take this seriously. So let me tell you exactly what I need to be taking seriously. Me in my pink gown opened in the front, a ball bearing taped to where my lump is, I am on a step stool while this woman is kneading my breast so that she can compress it with her massive boob squishing machine. Take this seriously, Becki! For Heaven’s sake just for once don’t be such a child!!!!

I get all of the pictures taken and then I am told that I can get dressed and then I can leave. Thank God, because I couldn’t hold it together back there. I get in my car and start to think things like “Did she look like I had cancer when she talked to me? She didn’t look me in the eye was that because she saw that I had cancer or was it because she was fondling me?” See you over think things when you don’t have any answers.

The way it worked back before everything was digital, you had to go pick up your films and take them to the specialist for them to point everything out to you. I go pick up this gigantic manilla folder with my titty pics in it and I have to carry them home.
As soon as I get home I open that bad boy up because I am curious as George and the red balloon. I look at the films and to my untrained eye I am loaded with cancer. Holy hell, my cancer even has cancer and there it is the ball bearing pointing out the worst cancer spot that everyone is so worried about. The next day is my appointment with the specialist. I make it early in the morning and I head straight there, my husband stayed home with the baby this time. I get to the specialist’s office and they are super efficient. I look around and I am the youngest by like thirty years. Ugh! These women all look at me with sorrow and you can tell they are all thinking “She’s too young to die.” And they are right. I am too young to die.

The specialist is the most capable woman I have ever met. She takes out my films and says “I really don’t see anything on here that concerns me.” (she clearly didn’t see what I was seeing) “Let my have a feel of the lump and get you out of here, shall we?”

(She sure is taking my death awfully well, although we don’t know each other and she sees a lot of this stuff so maybe she is just kind of cold like that.) She feels around and says when it is smooth and moves around like this it is more likely than not a cyst. My plan for you is to start having yearly mammograms, even though you are young for that and I will see you if things get worse.” (get worse?)

That’s it? I’m not going to die? Its nothing, Phew! This was the beginning of a very trying time of my life. The second stint to the specialist to look at my wayward lump was on THE September 11th. My husband and I were very unaware of what was happening at the twin towers and when the nurse saw my husband she had been crying. She said “OH MY GOD, you don’t know what happened. Do you?” My husband holding our toddler in his arms was thinking ‘How do I raise these kids alone?’ He was a little relieved when he found out he didn’t have to. We went home to find that they were putting the schools on lockdown, my poor children. Oh by the way the doctor stuck a needle in the lump and deemed it safe for another year.

My life looks like this for the next ten years until I a forty and I go in for my mammogram and they ask on the questionnaire if anything new cropped up…yes I have discharge from my nipple. The mammographer tells me that she, in fact, cannot do my mammogram because of the discharge. I look at her and say “Then just cross it out and let’s pretend it didn’t say that.” I smile because I know I’m being ridiculous but I am also a problem solver and that’s what I can do about this little problem. She calls my doctor and I am to go straight to his office, for a “Nipple Smear” Why yes it is as classy as it sounds. They take your breast make it discharge and smear it on glass plate for inspection. I get in my car and think to myself are you kidding? He wrote me a new script for a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound. Ugh, here we go again. This time I really am not that worried about it. My oldest was graduating from high school and I am super busy with the kids’ schedule to dream up my death. I really am just too busy to conjure my funeral.

I was painting my dining room when my doctor calls me “There are A-typia cells that are closely related to carcinoma, we made an appointment with the surgeon, she will be doing a ductal excision.” I hang up the phone and look at the time. It was time to pick the kids up at school, I don’t have time to process this. My husband is always traveling and I am not even sure how to tell him. I wash up and clean the paint mess hastily and head out to pick up the kids. I try to talk to them normal-like but I notice that my voice is too high (and this is a big deal because I have the voice of a mouse to begin with). I get through the pick ups and drop offs at the various and assorted sports/activites. I go home and call my husband. I leave the message that I got the results and he needed to call me as soon as he can. I pick the kids up, I make dinner, I help with homework, and we watch a little tv. I get the youngest tucked in to bed and my husband calls me back. He was busy and just now got to his hotel room. I tell him the news and he immediately doesn’t know what to say. That’s okay because neither do I. He had business meetings and he really couldn’t cancel some but if I want him to…. I don’t! I don’t want him to because that would make this all too real. I am not going to do this to myself again.

The day of my surgery and all goes well. I will hear back with the biopsy. I am pretty loopy and I am wearing this HUGE gauze bandage over my chest. I then had on a tank top over it and to my perfectly altered brain I looked down and was like this looks completely normal. I say it to everyone. “YOU Can’t even tell…” everyone gives me the same look like they are going to simply go along with my denial. It seems the best thing to do. When I come off of my anesthesia high I look in the mirror and I see the truth. I have a gauze bandage and a special bra to hold everything in place. That bra and bandaging stays put until my next appointment with the surgeon. Now I remember her saying to me “You did great, listen I had to take out more than I thought I would. Don’t you worry I got it all.”

I now think….what if I lost my breast. I actually was skinny now. I had lost the baby weight and I worked out two hours a day. I was fit and well, you probably will notice that I was missing one boob, Right? The day of the big reveal and I go in to get my bandages off. I am terrified at what is underneath. She removes the bandage and there it was…my breast fully intact with a small wrinkle and stitches. My doctor, this capable woman that I met in my twenties, had done amazing work. You really had to simply be impressed at her surgical skills and know-how. She tells me I am going to be sore because she roughed up my muscle quite a bit and injected some fat to fill it out. I couldn’t find anything hilarious about this moment. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. The biopsy came back with good news, it was papilloma and I was good to go. Call if anything arises.

A few years later, I had quite the rough year, complete with emotional upheaval and I woke up and my pajamas have a bloody wet spot by my nipple, the other side now. I call my doctor and he refers me straight to my surgeon, she retired but a new surgeon was there. I am sad that I won’t have that medical wonder but I meet with the new surgeon and I get a great warmth from her. Again ductal excision …not uncommon to see papilloma on the other side. The biopsy comes back “TOO Clean” go in for more testing, everything goes well. I think you are good lets just keep up with mammograms every six months. I go into my mammograms for a year and a half. On the third mammogram I get a call back. Oh sure when I tried out for that musical I didn’t get a call back, but this, this they call me back for. Abnormal mammogram… really should come in for a second one complete with ultrasound. Go in, complex cyst. follow up in six month, it’s still there.

To Today, I go in and I marvel at the technology. The machine isn’t built “One Size fits All” In fact, neither are the gowns…I grabbed the blue gown….it was not the right one…it was huge on me. I laugh because I don’t know if I should take it off and put on the smaller pink one…do I fold it back up and put it back in the sterile bag…do I put the blue one in the wash? I decide to just keep it on, it honestly tired me out thinking about it. The mammographer laughs as I come out and sees my 4’7″ frame in this tent of a gown. “I’m sorry! You put on the wrong size, oh well it will keep you warm.”

Mammogram first, then wait and then ultrasound. The ultrasound tech is different from the mammographer she too laughs at my mistake of wearing the extra large gown, I feel bad because I know that someone may need it and tiny me is wearing it. She performs the ultrasound…she gets quiet. She comes back in again and apologizes but she needs to take more pictures. She comes back in with my results, which is great that they don’t make you wait anymore. I still have a complex cyst and there are more of them. I get my “probably benign” diagnosis and I leave. I have also had the genetic testing, a while back when I had all of that other testing and that was clear of BRCA mutations. So I will go back in six months to see where it takes me.

So yes, I do find the experience of breast cancer screening overwhelming and I do choose to find something in it to laugh at. I don’t take it lightly and I know that women far greater than me have faced this challenge head on. Some have been diagnosed and beat their demon. Others fought and lost the war. Some have gone into it with fear and came out a warrior. No cancer, breast or otherwise, is really no laughing matter. To all of the women out there fighting, getting screenings and those of you like myself somewhere in the middle, I want to say to you that I am proud of you, you are brave and you are strong. Now go kick cancer’s ass because that asshole deserves it!

Let’s take a pause now for the warrior women who have fallen, may you be remembered for the badass heroes that you are!!!!

I’m sitting here waiting to go to my mammogram and ultrasound appointment. I definitely have some thoughts about this! Ugh! I will write about it later when I have more time.

Also coming up when dolls come to life and Grandma turns into one badass mofo!

Then I will switch gears and write about parenting kids, dog baths and no time to shower again!

Then up will be repainting the youngest’s bedroom and treasures found!

I hope you will join me later for these topics…

Now I guess I’ll get my big girl panties on and head to my appointment. Wish me luck!

Until next time 🤗

With four brothers it is fair to say that I would have had times in my childhood where we played ball. Yes any type of ball, you know, basketball, football, soccer ball, ping pong ball and of course baseball. I just so happen to be terrible at all of the sports ball things. I can’t catch and I can’t throw. I’m not bad at the aiming because I throw a mean dart…I pop the balloon every time. (yes, carnival dart is the only dart i’ve thrown) However, I was never what you would call “athletic”. (which is bullshit because I took dance lessons and did tumbling….you do a backflip and see how unimpressed you are with yourself)

Back to “sports ball”, my brothers tried unsuccessfully to teach me to play many of the games, but baseball was the absolute worst. I would be standing near the batter spot…is that at home plate? (I remember it being at home plate which was usually someone’s shoe) There I was and it would sound a lot like this “Okay Becki, now I am going to throw the ball and you’re going to swing it when it gets close to you.” ball comes I swing bat and ball goes past me.

“This time choke up on the bat” I push my hands up the bat (apparently to choke it) the ball comes, I swing and miss again.

“Maybe if you came closer to the pitcher…the ball is going to come in nice and slow and when it does just hit the ball gently.” ball comes in nice and slow, I swing and I miss again.

youngest brother “Three strikes….” (obviously gloating) “You’re out!”

older brother “No she gets another try.”

I was okay being out honestly…I know where this is going…everyone’s patience will wear thin and I will be in tears.

Me “I don’t want another turn.”

older brother “You almost had it that time!”

Encouraged and certain that there will one day be a book written about me and how I was terrible until that one time when I almost hit the ball and then after that I was in the baseball hero books. A large dedication to me in the baseball hall of fame with my picture and a caption underneath “All she needed was to choke up on the bat and then the rest was history”

Boom! the ball hits me in my stomach!

“Becki, what the hell are you doing?” older brother, patience almost gone.

I catch my breath and try to tell him that I was daydreaming but I had the wind knocked out of me. I wanted to cry, but no air apparently means no tears. I was a loud scream cryer too. I would cry and people all up and down the road would call my mother to ask if I was alright. I hated those calls… me to mother “Hang up! Don’t talk about me!” You know its bad when the entire neighborhood know your cry over anyone else’s.

I look up at my brother standing over me and I could tell he was willing me not to cry. I could hear his thoughts. That ball to the stomach made me have telepathy. I can hear his thoughts and his thoughts were “Don’t start screaming because I am going to get in trouble. The neighbors are all going to call and ask what happened and it will be my fault. Don’t cry, just get up and walk it off. We don’t want to go inside, Do NOT CRY!”

I laid on the ground trying not to cry like a baby and then my youngest brother pointed out that I was out. I looked at his smug little face and I remember that I didn’t want to play baseball in the first place. I didn’t cry, I got up and I stormed off. I went inside and found a book on the table. I grabbed that book and I called my black cat “KitKat” and I went to my reading spot. My reading spot was the most magical place in the world.

Deep in the woods was a tree shaped much like a V at the bottom but then the one side had two branches that met together to make the perfect sitting area for me and KitKat (he was the perfect reading partner). I climbed up to the top into the seat and looked at the book I was about to read. I was about eight years old and about to embark on the fine story of “Othello”. I had no idea where this book came from but I was going to allow it to save me from wayward balls and impatient brothers. I cracked open my new treasure and began reading. I read until daylight was gone and I could no longer see the words. I hopped down with my book, KitKat waiting for me at the base of the tree and back home we went. (the trek to and from my reading spot was not as far as I remembered it being as a child. I had quite the imagination) I walk into the kitchen where everyone was eating dinner and I hear “Where did you go cry baby?”

I took the book I was reading and I showed it rather closely to my brother and I said “We can’t all be athletic, some of us get to be….” I stumbled because I lacked the vernacular for what someone who reads far above her reading level would be. It was about to be a great come back. It wasn’t because at that moment my oldest brother realized that I was the one who took his homework book that he had been searching for all day.

“Why did you take your brother’s homework?” was the question that I had no answer for. I stood there with Othello growing ever heavier in my arms.

“I saw it on the table.” was my lame answer.

“Why did you take it?”

“I don’t know!” I now realize that my decisions were usual made in haste.

“Go to your room and think about what you have done!”

AS I was in my room I did think about what I had done. The problem was I didn’t particularly think it was terrible. I mean I walked away from a fight. I found a book to read. I spent the afternoon keeping to myself. What I had done wasn’t that terrible from my point of view. If given the options again, I’m pretty certain it was going to go down like that again. This could’ve been the moment in time when I had a clear vision that life is all about perspective and if you could just see the other’s perspective then that would make your life easier. That would make me more compassionate. I did NOT do that because I was eight. I went to my room and brushed my doll’s hair and thought to myself, “Everything I do is wrong. I can’t play baseball right. I can’t find the right books to read. I can’t even do the right thing right!”…….Do not cry for her….she is learning and learning comes when you are alone and brushing your dolls hair ferociously. (Maybe cry for my doll, though, because she had a bald spot)

My oldest brother came in with his Othello book and turned to the middle of the book where I dogeared the page and asked “Did you really read all of this?”

I looked at him and was deciding if I was going to ever talk to him again.

“Becki, did you read half of the book?”

I nodded but I didn’t look at the book. (because I’m cool like that)

“We were only supposed to read the first two chapters tonight.” I glanced in his direction and shrugged.

“Did you understand it?” this was an odd question. It’s reading. Yes I understood it. I nodded again. Then I noticed the perplexed look on his face. Then I decided to explain something.

“They have little cheater notes built in. AT the bottom of the page it helps you understand what’s going on because it was written with old timey words.” I opened the book and showed him.

“Do you like this book?” I nodded again.

“It’s really good.” I said

“Do you want to finish it?”

My eyes grew wide at the opportunity to finish this wonderful book filled with adventures and new words. I was about to be introduced to my love of Shakespeare. He tosses the book gently on my bed and finishes with “Good let me know how it ends I have to write a report on it in a couple of weeks.”

That was okay with me. I got to finish reading his book. In fact I got to read many books from my brother’s class. Little did they know that an eight year old didn’t write reports like a teenager. But I was thrilled with the possibility of having first dibs on all of the books that came home from school.

The next day my mother decided it was time to take me to the library. OH MY GOODNESS! An entire building whose job it was to hold all of those books. I loved the library what a place made of dreams and thoughts and ideas of some of the best story tellers ever. Mark Twain…I dreamed of being told stories sitting around a campfire with Mark Twain at the helm. Who wouldn’t want to hear Mark Twain telling them a bed time story. I went to his house once…I will never forget it. He was my favorite, still is. I admired him for years. I often wonder what he would say about politics today, or travel today, or could you imagine Mark Twain on Facebook or twitter.

Yes, We can’t all be athletic, some of us are dreamers, some of us are artists, some of us are thinkers, some of us are explorers, but all of us we do our best and that’s why I love reading. In books the characters get to complete themselves which is so different from real life. In books the problem is apparent and people learn truths and life is often wrapped up neatly in the end. Baseball may not teach everyone the lessons it taught me…and no I never made it in the baseball hall of fame for standing closer to the pitcher and getting the perfect hit. I do have a certain regard towards people who have ended up there and trust me if you go to the library you can probably find a book all about them. You see I wasn’t built for baseball and that is perfectly fine with me. I was made to love books and stories and admire people. I was made to be me and I try to be the best me possible.

Until next time 🙂

I grew up in the seventies and Saturday Morning cartoons was a ritual anyone of that time would remember. We had three channels and sometimes if we used the right tin foil and the proper position of the antenna we could get more. Saturday Morning cartoons were the absolute best. We didn’t bother our parents for anything because we could watch our tv and if we woke up the adults we would have to go get “fresh air”. We didn’t want fresh air we wanted our cartoons. One of our favorites was the Justice League of America. WE LOVED IT! In fact, we loved it so much that we would act it out when it was done. A typical game of Justice League started pretty much the same with my youngest brother wearing a towel around his neck. When we saw this we knew that we were about to save the world from impending doom. So my youngest brother, with his cape, was obviously superman. (Now when you play Justice League for the first time…be sure to lock in a good character from the get go…this is imperative…do not hold back….this is probably the most important role players rule. Because any time you say “this time I want to be Wonder Woman.” The answer is obviously “But I’m always Wonder Woman, remember?” ) My sister was Wonder Woman….I was ok with this because my sister was a goddess and she fit the profile. Unfortunately for me there was only one other girl (I was a girly girl and I definitely did NOT want to pretend to be a boy) the other girl, however, came as a twin and the only way she had powers was to activate her ring with her twin brother. I (every time) would look hopeful at the older brother that was young enough to play with us still (it was us four that played, the other two were teenagers and they were NOT in the Justice League of our Living Room) and I would say in my little voice “Why don’t we be the Wonder twins?” I then would run at top speed to go get two tin foil rings I have made in the off chance that this time he would say yes. “Nah, I’m going to be Aquaman!” I then knew where this was going…..It was the same every time. He would then look at me and act as if he were doing me a favor and say “But you can be my fish!” He probably was doing me a favor, because this was the brother that I was closest to. He always had my best interest at heart…at least as much as a ten year old boy could…. selfishly. “I don’t want to be your fish! I want to be a super hero! I can just have Teddy (stuffed bear) be the other twin.”

A Justice League vote went in and no bears allowed. They voted unanimously and since I was not yet a super hero I had no voting power. Those are the rules in the justice league.

“Then I don’t want to play. I’ll play something else.” I would leave and go to my room. As I was in my room brushing my doll’s hair I would here the EPIC Battle going on in the living room. The Justice League was solving serious crimes and I wanted to be a part of it. I walk out into the hallway and watch with envy as Wonder Woman flew her invisible airplane (ottoman) into the volcano to see if the bad guys were in there. Then there was Superman using his x-ray vision to see through the mountain and they both agreed that the bad guys were in fact in the volcano. Then they go and call Aquaman to see if he and his fish could help. Aquaman, along with the others, devise a plan of genius and there I was playing stupid dolls and having no part of the best game of justice league ever played in any living room ever. Aquaman looks at me and sees my sorrow and says…”I have to see if my best Dolphin can help. She had to leave to take care of a sick baby.” he says looking at the doll in my hand. I nod my head and run back to my room and throw that doll onto my bed, she’s all better now.

(Now to envision how this works, in our living room we have a braided rug with rings of color in it. Some rings were brown and some rings were blue. The blue was the water and this dolphin could only be in the water. Which means the entire time I am being a justice league adjacent member, by affiliation with Aquaman only, I could only pretend to swim on this blue ring of the rug. “You can be on the other blue ring too Becki!” was the consolation…I could be on the one blue ring or the other smaller center blue ring.) (Oh and I can’t talk because dolphins can’t talk they squeal…”EEEEEEHHYYY! EEEEEEHHHYYYYY!”) Some of you are thinking exactly what I was always thinking, this is some serious bullshit. And it was!!! But in order for me to be in on the action I had to follow the very specific rules…because I was Aquaman’s dolphin!

Have you ever heard children play pretend? If you have what I am about to write will make sense….if you haven’t then a lot of what children “Do” in pretend is actually “Said”. Follow along if you can.

WONDER WOMAN: “Now I am going to fly over to the volcano and make sure that the bad guys are still there. FFFFSSSSSSHHHHHHEEEEWWWW <noise of the invisible airplane (ottoman) she is flying”

SUPERMAN: “I’m going to get ready with my laser vision and if you see them I will blast the side of the mountain and cut a hole right in the side of the mountain….BBBBBRRRRRRVVVVVVSSSSSHHHHHH<noise of his laser vision”

AQUAMAN: “And I am going to call to my dolphin with my telepathy….DOOOOOTDOOOOTDOOOOTDOOOT <noise of telepathic power”

Lame Dolphin sitting in the blue ring of the rug: “And I’m going to bring over the net that is in the sea and I am going to trap them bad guys with it.” smiling at my ability to save the planet.

Justice League is put on a time out. “No Becki, you can’t do that because you can’t come up on land. Remember?”

Me: “Well you guys can chase them into the water and then I will get them with my net.” I smile at my genius.

Justice League votes and it’s a no: “You can bring Aquaman the net and Aquaman can trap the bad guys in the net….but dolphins can’t trap the bad guys. So you just give Aquaman the net and he will trap the bad guys.” game ensues without my say so.

Lame Dolphin: still trying to make her case “But I could…just…..”

Justice League: passive aggressively remind me that I’m lame “Aquaman, is your dolphin trying to tell you something?”

AQUAMAN: “I don’t know, Dolphin is speaking a language that I don’t understand.”

SUPERMAN: “Uh Oh! I think the bad guys have taken over your dolphin and is now using it to do BAD STUFF!”

Lame Dolphin: stands up to plea my case that I wasn’t a bad guy and still on their side. I step on a brown ring in the rug.

WONDER WOMAN: “Did you guys see that? That Dolphin is walking on land, definitely working with the bad guys.”

AQUAMAN: “Let me see if I can communicate with it…DOOOOTDOOOTDOOOTDOOOT”

Lame Dolphin: still trying to make my case “No, guys! Com’on! I’m not with the bad guys. I want to be on your side.”

AQUAMAN: “This is worst than I thought! The other fish say that Dolphin is definitely working with the bad guys. We are going to have trap dolphin so she doesn’t help the bad guys.”
Lame Dolphin: “NO, guys, I’m still working with the Justice League. I’m a good dolphin.” I look down and I am now on the smaller blue ring. I now realize where I went wrong “EEEEEHHYYY! EEEEHHHYYYY! EEEEHHHYYY!” I drop down on the carpet and flop around like a fish because I have only seen cartoon dolphins.

WONDER WOMAN: “I think that there is something fishy about that other body of water down there. Aquaman we better get samples back to the lab for testing.”

Fuck, now the rest of this game I will be stuck on this smaller patch of blue rug, squealing. Well I did this to myself really. I know the rules….blue ring, no talking and can not be the hero.

I play the rest of the game following the rules and I give Aquaman the net and then an anchor. The super heroes save the day as I sat on the smallest center ring of the rug, screeching and mostly just watching them play waiting for my cues. Also the water was tainted and for all future games I have to stay on this center patch until the Justice League can find what is in the water and clean it out. Justice League always ended somewhat on a cliffhanger….this one just so happened to screw me only!

SUPERMAN: “If Dolphin, or any of the other fish go in there, does that mean it turns them bad?” (so regardless of what kind of fish I play I’m still on the smallest center ring of the rug. Clever, superman, very clever.)

AQUAMAN: “That’s absolutely right! So if Dolphin or any other fish goes in the larger body of water they will be a bad guy.”

Double Fuck, because now when they want an actual body to throw around I will be it. I will be a bad guy with the simple statement of….

Justice League: “I think all of the water has been affected now.”

Justice League of the Living Room is savage and also I think this is how gas-lighting works. So again, I have to point out if you are about to play Justice League in your own living room, lock down a good character because that is your character for all eternity and if you don’t…. you get stuck on a 1′ X 3′ patch of rug unable to actually speak or be an actual hero and potentially you could be helping the bad guys do bad guy stuff. No one wants to go out like that. I did, however, become kickass at making dolphin noises and if there ever comes a time when I need that ability I am well rehearsed and ready to go.

Until next time 🙂

In my family I had four brothers and one sister. When I was a young girl my mother had this Avon lady come to the house. I loved this lady as if she were my fairy Godmother. She had tiny white tubes of lipstick samples and catalogs small enough to fit in my extremely petite hands. Why did my mother have an Avon lady? I don’t know! My mother didn’t wear make-up nor did we have any extra money. Maybe my mother wanted to do something nice for us girls among all of those boys. Or perhaps, more likely my mother, much like myself, couldn’t say no to people. (Me at every knock on my door: sure I would love to hear about Jesus, Yes I would love to hear about your cause, sure please try to sell me the meat and fish that is in your van on this exceptionally hot day….I don’t want to be rude, I leave that for my husband, you’re welcome hubby!) Either way we had an Avon Lady, and I loved her.

One day my mother would say “Oh crap, Mrs. Whichadinger is coming today!” (sidebar, 1st: I actually thought her name was Mrs. Whichadinger. My mother was my MOM and what she said was gospel and also I didn’t know she was cool and gave people snappy nicknames. 2nd: What I actually heard was “Our fancy cosmetics lady is coming so go grab your catalog from which you dug out of the trash when no one was looking and circled all of your favorite things” Let’s be real, I wanted just about everything  so there were over a hundred red crayon circles in that tiny book of magical goodness. My sister (whom I always compared to the good and naturally beautiful Mary Ingalls, never appeared to want anything….I on the other hand was more like…you know the other one…..what was her name? OH yeah, Wednesday Adams from the Adam’s family…I was pale and had huge circles under my eyes…and not really that good and wholesome.)

So Mrs. Whichadinger showed up and didn’t let the woman ducking around the corner deter her from knocking incessantly because there I was all two and half feet of me…holding my red circled catalog over my heart ready to pledge my oath to beauty….with all of my want and dreams. Stars in my eyes bigger than my parents bank account…..I was her real customer and Mrs. Whichadinger probably knew it. “Mom, she’s here!” I called out in my breathy lust for anything she would sell me and the samples, don’t get me started on those samples. My poor mother stood up and brushed the wrinkles out of her clothes with defeat and came out from her hiding spot to let Mrs. Whichadinger in. There she was my lovely Mrs. Whichadinger and her caddy of samples ready to show us all of the things we cannot afford.

Now my mom, again probably like me and can’t say no to this woman who is clearly trying to make a living selling cosmetics to strangers, buys her usual item “Skin so soft”. I know some of you love this item and perhaps you have great stories about this product removing tar from your favorite shirt or saving you from that swarm of killer bees. But to this little girl (who dressed up in her best dress for the Avon lady to visit) with her wish list several miles long….skin so soft wasn’t on it. Is this why I still to this day hate that product? I don’t know (you’re bitter) But I can tell you there is a reason it scares away bugs. Because it stinks! Once my mother put in her order and handed Mrs. Whichadinger her meager check….off she went. I watched her as she carried her satchel of fun and loaded back into her car…just once I wished she would accidentally leave it here..I hope she wills it to me when she dies (if Fairy Godmothers even do die, which I doubt) I sit at the window as she drives away…daydreaming about make overs and other practical things. I eventually was pulled back to reality and reality came in a blue and white bottle of stink.

I didn’t cry because I was always told to be happy with what you get. But what I was about to get was a year long supply of skin so soft baths! (first of all it was the seventies before they realized that what they actually created was bug repellent and car fuel. Second of all, What did they sell it for? To force your kids to bathe in it, it was for your bath….it was for MY bath) Don’t get it in your eyes because that shit burns! Don’t get it in your mouth because, weren’t you listening, that shit burns. Don’t get it in your hair because it doesn’t wash out. I used to call it ‘hair so slimy’. But this doesn’t make me hate my cosmetically genius Mrs. Whichadinger….it just makes me lustful for the big tube of blushing pink lipstick or that really cool pallet of eyeshadow that resembles a rainbow.

I knew it wasn’t going to last when Mrs. Whichadinger didn’t come around much. My mother probably told her the truth, we had enough skin so soft to soften the skin of all of the elephants in Africa. Or the real truth, she didn’t wear make-up. Or the real, real truth, that we didn’t have any money. However, one day, (insert the harps of heaven) there she was, that glorious woman with her really oddly colored black hair piled atop of her head and her bright blue eye shadow and her purple cheeks with lips and nails to match, shopping at our grocery store. There she was, that woman that I admired and secretly hoped that she would adopt me (for like a week tops because I didn’t want a new mom, I just wanted an unlimited supply of make-up and I was afraid of the dark and my mom knew how to save me from that.) I would recognize that angelic woman anywhere. I saw her and without pause, I stuck my hand in the air and waved it ferociously…my smile growing ever wider…eyes all lit up like sparklers and I yelled “Hello, Mrs. Whichadinger! Hi! Hi! Mrs. Whichadinger, hello!” ……

…….What happened next, I can only explain as mass confusion and utter chaotic embarrassment. Not to mention the scolding of a lifetime. How was I to know that wasn’t her real name? My mother called her that  EVERY TIME!!!!

Moral of my story: if you are going to dole out snappy nicknames to people, let your kids in on it or suffer the embarrassment of losing your Avon contact and your lifetime use of skin so soft in your bath. (honestly if you showed up at my mother’s house she probably has that bottle in her closet…because no one really wanted to use it. Hey mom, maybe you could sell it on eBay…there maybe some vintage bottle collector on there willing to pay a fortune for that stuff?!!) Also we weren’t allowed to buy bubble bath I once asked and my mother said “No, bubble bath gives you urinary tract infections”….and I still make that mistake. UGH!!!! Bubblebaths are luxurious until you burn when you pee! But skin so soft didn’t cause burning when you pee and was deemed safe for my urinary health…because it has like 190% alcohol in it….and it was oily…chemical ingenuity in a plastic bottle sold by little old ladies everywhere. Get yours today. 🙂

So that is my story of our Avon lady Mrs. Whichadinger…. I never did learn her real name….it will forever be Mrs. Whichadinger to me….I hope you enjoyed…

Until next time when I talk about being in the Justice League of our Living room. 🙂