Happily Ever Laughter

Ah, marriage. So many have done it, written about it, sung about it, longed to have it, made movies about it, bought dresses for it, went broke because of it, and cried in their beers over it. And still when it’s our turn, it’s both magical and mysterious. We’re filled with hope and awe and images of ourselves sitting on a front porch holding hands into the twilight of our lives. And one day, somewhere down the line, the honeymoon ends and real life sets in and you start to get a good idea of what forever is going to feel like. That part of the fairy tale they never show you – when the handsome prince grows a spare tire, the fairy princess develops anger issues, and the once-upon-a-time you dreamed about is littered with dirty laundry, unpaid bills, and images of killing him in his sleep.

Today I speak to you as one who has settled into the real life stage of marriage. As one who can help give you some advice to prepare you for the hills and valleys that lay ahead. You see, I married Mr. Right. I just didn’t realize his first name was Always. My friend found her Mr. Right too, but his first name is Can’t-Do-Anything. Even finding your Mister Right doesn’t guarantee a happy ending. So today I share with you some words of wisdom to help you on the road to a happy marriage. Tips to a happy marriage.

Don’t do it
Okay, well will just skip over that one why don’t we?

Embrace Your Differences
Understand that you are different people. And it’s okay. My husband is the smart one. He lays awake at night pondering the mysteries of the universe. I lay awake wondering what happens to their tattoos when big people lose weight, or how veterinarians get their dogs to pee in a cup.

Do things to spice up your marriage
The other day my husband suggested we do something new in the bedroom. I suggested he pick up his socks. It’s good to make sure you always have a date night. We do. I have Tuesday, he has Thursday.

Take the good with the bad.
90% of the time you’ll look at him and say I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The other ten percent you’re looking for ways to fake your death. You’ll go from thinking it is the cutest thing how he drools when he sleeps to……Good grief if I hear him suck in his breath when he eats a sandwich one more time I’m going to tear my eyes out!

Find new levels of intimacy
One day you’ll go from standing in the doorway wearing that smoking hot little black dress to…….Hey honey! Come here!! You have got to see what is growing in between my toes! Fooling around may start as an all night affair. Now, it’s “Hurry up! We’ve got five minutes before Law and Order starts! You go from, “Honey, could you rub lotion on my shoulders” to “Hey babe! Can you come pluck this hair for me? I think it’s infected!”And by the way, don’t take sex advice from old people. To them, safe sex is not breaking a hip.

Don’t compare yourself to others
Don’t be intimidated by those sappy couples who are all gushy and sweet, like my friend who got her husband’s handprints put in cement and hung up on her wall so she could “always know what it feels like to have his hand in mine.” (Gagging motion) Shoot. I’ve got that without paying anything. Come over to my house and you can check out his butt print on the recliner.

Keep the lines of communication open
For the record husbands, when she asks what’s on TV, don’t ever say dust. Appreciate the fact that now she’ll hang on every word you say. Ten years from now the only time she’ll listen to every word you say is when you’re talking in your sleep. I asked my husband why we haven’t spoken all day. He said he didn’t want to interrupt me. I told my husband he needs to get in touch with his feminine side. So he started listening, communicating, and asking if his butt looks big in these pants.

And there you have it. My tips to a happy marriage. Nurture them. Use them wisely. Refer to them often. And if I’m still married ten years from now. I’ll write another one.
Best wishes!

Another Crazy Mommy Moment

It was my first night out as a new mommy – as in no kids. My husband was taking me out to dinner to celebrate our first six months of successful parenting – or maybe the fact that the cable was out and he knew he couldn't watch the game. I didn't care. I was going out. Nothing was going to ruin this night for me.

I let Junior watch six hours of cartoons while I got ready. I took a bubble bath. I shaved. I bought a cute little black dress that no longer fell into the "little" category, but I didn't care. I even purchased a sexy little thong which rubbed a blister before I was even through applying my mascara. But I left it on. Nothing was going to ruin this night!

I even decided to tackle the overwhelming task of doing something to my breastfed boobs that now hung to my knees and had been attracting National Geographic reporters from all over the country. I bought these cool pasty things you stick in your bra that looked something like a raw chicken breast, but did in fact make my chest look perky and take attention off my rear end which had grown to the point that it now occupied another zip code and was at the moment making some pretty interesting bottom music due to the late afternoon snack of raw broccoli combined with the thong. It was as if I had invented a new rubber band instrument. I'm thinking of getting a patent.

I put on my highest heels. Took them off. Put them back on, and reminded myself that beauty is pain and waited for my husband to pick me up. I was so happy. I kissed Junior, kissed the babysitter, and ran out the door to meet my husband. Okay, walked fast. The heels were really high.

He didn't notice my heels. He didn't notice the dress. He didn't notice that I was now limping because I had a blister in between my butt cheeks that was starting to get infected. He was too busy trying to find a parking spot up front at Burger Bart's Buffet where all the food is displayed around the perimeter of the restaurant and who needs a waiter when you can get up and get it yourself?

I'm standing there trying to decide between macaroni and cheese or assisted suicide, crammed in between my husband who is scouting out the nearest TV and a sweet older gentleman who seemed to be staring a little too intently at my cleavage. Looking back, I understand why. Because the miraculous perky pseudo-breast I had tucked inside my dress was coming dislodged. Of course, I didn't know this, which is probably why it generated such a rapt audience at the salad bar. Especially when I sneezed and the breast popped out of my dress and landed in the cottage cheese.

I was mortified. Do I quickly pick it up and stuff it back in? Do I put it on my plate beside the cherry tomatoes? Do I leave it there and act like I had no idea I had lost a booby on the salad bar? Sometimes fate has a way of working things out. This wasn't one of those times.

I felt another sneeze coming on – apparently allergic to the new body splash I bought for this special occasion – and the magnitude of the sneeze caused something to snap. The thong. Apparently it simply couldn't hold up under the pressure. Personally, I don't blame it.

I'm not really sure if there's a scientific explanation for it, or if fate just couldn't pass this opportunity up, but the thong snapped, broke, and went flying through the air whereupon it slapped the kind old gentleman across the face and sort of hung there like a birthday party streamer. And that was the last sight I saw as I went running from the restaurant. Okay, walking fast - those heels were really high. My husband never noticed a thing.

I've never been back to Bart's Burger Buffet where they had to have the salad bar and the old man fumigated. The high heels are collecting dust in the top of my closet and I haven't worn a thong since because my rear end still has nightmares of the whole sordid experience. I have an anniversary coming up. Hubby wants to take me out to dinner. I'm thinking I'll go look for something sexy.

Please, I'll do anything....how I lost my house to a two-year-old

Trailer:

When the stakes are high, we forget everything the books say about good parenting.

I hate those other mothers. The ones who always do the right thing – who live and quote from the good book of mothering – who turn their noses down at the rest of us as if to say You know better than to put cheese on his vegetables. You know better than to let him sleep in a wet diaper. You know better than to breastfeed at the salad bar.

When I was a kid there was no need for bribery and somewhere there are seventy-eight splintered wooden spoons that can attest to that. When I became pregnant I swore I would never put up with an unruly child. I also swore I wouldn’t gain one unnecessary pound and somewhere there are six thousand empty Twinkie wrappers that are calling me a liar.

I resorted to bribery almost as quickly as I went from the NO TV EVER! Rule to the no TV between 4 and 5pm because that’s when my shows are on Rule. Sort of like my chocolate addiction, it was just a little bit at first. Please sit with Great Aunt Edna and I will let you play outside. Please wear this cotton jumpsuit with the matching bonnet and I will buy you a water gun. Please don’t tell Daddy I accidentally left you out front of the post office because I got distracted by that cute sweater in the store window.

At the time of this story I had sworn never to bribe my child again (at least not in public.) I was holding two-year-old Junior in the middle of my cousin Fern’s wedding in little white picket church about a mile and a hair past nowhere. It was two-hundred degrees and we were crammed into pews that were made back when people were half the size they are now. I was saying a silent thank-you to the stained-glass Jesus for getting us through the service without incident. We only had five minutes left.

We had made it through the bride’s dance down the aisle singing Shania Twain’s From this Moment into her flower encased microphone which Junior drooled over, like he does over anything he can’t have – like the remote control, the car keys, or Uncle Enid’s special occasion dentures. I sweetly told him “no, no” and it worked! I’m thinking of writing a book on parenting.
We made it through the angry wedding coordinator whose husband just left her for a Patty Duke impersonator, muttering obscenities while she straightened bow ties and adjusted flowers. We made it through forty-seven variations of Annie’s Song on the guitar by my cousin Chester, and Mr. Bentley’s hairpiece that had shifted mid-ceremony and dangled beside Junior like a scalped squirrel.

Four more minutes….And he notices the hat - Bertice Merriweather’s hat that weighed more than she did - that bobbed up and down to the rhythm of her snoring head. The hat covered with doves and tiny cherubs – one of which seemed to be whispering touch me. And suddenly Junior gets that look. I’ve seen that look. I saw that look before he flushed my bathrobe down the toilet. I saw that look before he decided to play doctor with my eye lash curler and the cat. You know the look. It’s the look that tells you the stakes have just been raised. That says you’d better pull out your trump card because he’s ready to strike. That look that says he’s about thirty seconds away from a meltdown. Every fiber of my being shouted, BRIBE HIM. FAST! So I started whispering bribes in his ear like an auctioneer.

He didn’t want his pacifier. He didn’t want his juice. He didn’t want my wedding set or my gold-plated watch. He didn’t want the sucker covered in hair from the bottom of my purse or the half-empty airplane bottle of tequila. He wanted that hat. He was holding out for the good stuff. His lip started to quiver. I promised him a pony. I promised him he could sleep in our bed until he was fifteen. I promised I would never show his future girlfriends the picture of him naked in the tub. My palms were starting to sweat and I was getting dizzy. My kid was about to ruin this wedding as only my kid could. I swear the stained-glass Jesus was smiling.

I knew this was going to happen right when we sat down. I knew he would want to touch that hat. I had tried to get Bertice Merriweather to move up a row – just one row and then Junior wouldn’t be tempted. But Bertice wouldn’t move – couldn’t move – because her son had told her he if she stayed in her seat and didn’t move, he’d drive her to Garnet to get her corns shaved. Bribed her, he did! Of all the nerve.

Her son needed her to stay there because his girlfriend said she wouldn’t come to the wedding unless his mother obeyed the restraining order. And the girlfriend wasn’t going to come but the bride said if she’d stand in as a bridesmaid for her sick cousin Lolita and wear the lime green chiffon dress she would host a candle party at her house. And the bride really needed her to stand in because her mother had said the missing bridesmaid would make a gap in all the photos and if she filled that gap with somebody else she would promise not to drink too much at the reception and do her impression of Joan Rivers in a windstorm – though it was funny. Turns out the web of bribery was thicker than the kudzu surrounding that church.

I was running out of tricks. I pulled out my last card. I wasn’t thinking. He had me up against the wall. I offered him the house. Yes, I promised him the house. And he stopped. Turned around. Looked at me. And smiled. I didn’t hear a peep for the rest of the ceremony. My son had his price. He could be bought. I’m not sure he’ll ever cash in his chips. But I have a feeling he will hold it over me for the rest of my life. It was not my proudest moment I’ll admit. So much for winning parent of the year. But like anything else in life I remind myself that parents aren’t perfect. We’re just trying to make it through one day at a time doing the best we know how. But we mean well, and that’s what counts. Thanks for letting me share one of my moments of weakness. And, please, don’t tell the other mothers.

Now I lay me down to sleep, just watch me make my mommy weep!

Now I lay me down to sleep, just watch me make my mommy weep!

by Kelly Swanson

Trailer:

It’s all fun and games ‘til the baby doll’s head pops off. You’ve never seen a bedtime like this. Told from the toddler’s perspective! Low-budget family reunions are bad enough, but throw in a toddler who doesn’t want to go to bed, and it’s downright bedlam. Add a drunk aunt and a three-legged hound dog, and…well…let’s just say somebody’s bound to get hurt.

Now I lay me down to sleep, just watch me make my mommy weep!
By Kelly Swanson

They call me Junior, tell me I’m two, and, according to my bib, consider me a precious little gift from heaven, which may no longer apply after the seven-hour car ride today where I threw three temper tantrums, stuck a jelly bean up my nose, choked on a plastic frog, and timed each poopy to occur after we passed the rest stop.

We were at the beach, judging by the smell of battered fish and overabundance of joggers wearing thongs. It was another family reunion with Mommy’s family who, according to Daddy, doesn’t have a brain cell or a complete set of teeth between them – crammed into what was advertised as a quaint water-front cottage which turned out to be a tiny bug-infested trailer overlooking a sewage drain. That explains why Uncle Buford had some rental money left over for lottery tickets.

I was a good sport for the first several hours of sand-filled diapers, gritty bologna sandwiches, pinches on the cheek, and requests to hear my off-key rendition of twinkle, twinkle little star. I held it together when Raynelle walked out in her new swimsuit (I’ve had band aids bigger) and Granny Jean told her she was going to hell. Granny is convinced that half of us are going to hell and the half who aren’t should be. I kept my cool when I had to sit with Uncle Buford who on a good day thinks the year is 1956 and he’s a runner for the mob. And I did not let my temper slip when Aunt Edna started slurring her words and crying over her cat Bootsy who died when she was twelve.

But I’m only two for gosh sakes, I have my limits. And by the time the sun set on our rusty trailer, my patience had worn thin. It was time for some pay back. I chose bedtime as the perfect opportunity. Bedtimes are always a good opportunity. I must admit that I have mastered the art of bedtime stall tactics. So after six books, two kisses, four glasses of water, and a bedtime prayer that would have made Moses proud, I had my Mommy just where I wanted her, with her eyes glazed over and her mouth gone slack. It was time to bump things up a notch. I picked that moment to call out for my Yucky-Yucky who I knew full well had been left behind at our house sleeping soundly in the guest room commode where I left it.

I know it’s an odd name for my most beloved object of affection. But Yucky-Yucky is not your average childhood treasure. Not one of those cute plush animals delivered to me at birth by a line of blue-haired well-wishers from the local Baptist church, but an old plastic naked doll with chopped up hair, a face covered with red magic marker, and a missing pinky - delivered straight out of the mouth of the dog next door – and not too willingly might I add. “NO, NO!” Mommy kept shrieking. “That’s the dog’s toy. It’s yucky, baby. It’s yucky, yucky.” Hence the name.

I made it clear that I wanted Yucky-Yucky and that I would do anything including holding my breath to get it. It was at that particular moment that all eyes turned on me and pandemonium ensued as the entire cast of wacky southern characters descended on me like the seagulls on the Cheetos we had tossed out on the beach.

I screamed. I kicked. I held my breath until I turned blue and Granny said I was going to hell for being disobedient and Aunt Edna tried to give me mouth to mouth until Mommy stopped her and spared me my first taste of Budweiser.

They sent Uncle Skeeter out to buy another doll, cut off the hair, mark all over the face, run over it a couple of times, and pass it off as my Yucky-Yucky. Please, did they think me an idiot? I may forget the number six every time I count to ten, but I know an imposter when I see one. I let them have a couple moments of peace before launching into another jag of earth-shattering bellows.

It was then that Grunt, Cousin Ned’s three-legged deaf hound dog, caught sight of Yucky-Yucky and went after it – one of those nice unplanned surprises. I cranked it up a notch while they all chased after Grunt to get the doll, knocking over furniture and trashing what was probably already considered trash to begin with. Ned finally pried the plastic doll from Grunt’s teeth and threw it to Aunt Vyrnetta who managed to grab it and fling it up into the air before falling backwards into the fish tank and ripping her new orange Capri pants which, Mommy was correct, made her rear end look like an overgrown pumpkin.

And this is how the counterfeit Yucky-Yucky flew directly into the ceiling fan which had been operating at full speed ever since Aunt Edna had another one of her hot flashes. And there we all witnessed with startling clarity, the death of this imposter Yucky-Yucky who was decapitated in front of our very eyes. Death by ceiling fan.

I stopped crying. The dog stopped barking. Everybody stopped talking and moving at once. Complete silence except for the sound of the plastic head rolling across the hardwood floor where it landed with a thud against a ceramic dolphin wearing sunglasses, the rest of its body still lodged in the fan, whirling round and round like some freaky carnival ride.

They all agreed that letting me stay up as late as I wanted would have a far lesser impact than the scarring that would occur from the gruesome scene which had just played out. And so there I sat, in the middle of it all, for the rest of the night, nestled in my Aunt Edna’s bosom that smelled like roses and Marlboros, while Granny prayed over my soul and Uncle Skeet picked a little “I’ll Fly Away” on the guitar. Eventually, I fell asleep. Who can blame me? I was exhausted. And in my dreams I replayed that scene over and over – my first real decapitation. Too cool. How will I ever top that?

Frazzled Mom Hiding Out in Bathroom

by Kelly Swanson

I have to talk quietly so he won’t hear me. If he hears me, he will find me, and I haven’t had a moment to myself all day. That’s why I’m sitting here in the bathroom sucking on a lollipop wishing it were a Marlboro, and clutching a bottle of cooking sherry. I just need a moment to vent. And I don’t have anybody. So you’re it.

No, it’s not about the gas bill again. I’m over that. Yes, I’m still counting points. Why do you think I’m in such a bad mood all the time? And, thank you, I’m no longer worried that my left elbow is bigger than my right. I’m just deformed. I’ll live with it. No, today I’m just tired.

That’s all there is to it. Tired. I don’t care anymore about winning the lottery, I don’t care about getting a new minivan. I don’t care about being swept away to a tropical paradise where I instantly turn into a size 0 and my breasts get perky again. I don’t care about anything but sleep.

You’re probably not going to feel sorry for me because my situation is not unique. I’m a mom. And to just one kid – a two-year-old boy– but just one kid all the same. “Oh shut up,” my Aunt Edna always says, “I had four kids in two years. You don’t even know tired.”

Please….just this one time…don’t tell me you have it worse…..don’t be like my cousin Shirley who constantly whines about how bad she’s got it. Waa, waa, waa. I’ve got three kids. We live in a trailer with my great Aunt Nadine who keeps losing her teeth while my no-good husband is in Nashville trying to make it as a country/western singer in between shifts at the nude car wash.

Maybe she does have it worse, but just for today. Take one minute out of your day to listen to a stranger. I won’t tell you the story of my life. I won’t even tell you the story of my week. Just let me tell you about my day. That’s all I ask.

He gets up at 5am. Which means I get up at five am and throw him another day-old cereal bar so he can watch cartoons while I get ready. Oh I know I know about that whole cartoon will rot his brain stuff. I was worried about it for about two weeks and then I got over that. I’ll trade rotted brain for some moments of quiet.

So I get one eyebrow done and I hear something that I know means trouble - silence. If you’re a mom and you hear silence, run.

In our house, junior’s silence usually means he’s either got the cat caught up in another death grip that he innocently refers to as playing – or he’s naked. In this case it’s the latter.

I follow the trail of pajamas and socks and diaper pieces (he can’t just take the thing off, he’s got to shred it in the process) and I get to where my beloved son is standing on top of his train play table playing my pee pee’s a water gun and firing on a helpless line of stuffed animals as well as anything else he deems worthy of death by pee pee – which now includes my bathrobe which is the price you pay when you startle an unsuspecting pee shooter. They’ll turn on you. That was just the beginning.

He refuses to get in his car seat because he thinks the dead leaf on the window is a bug, and he’s suddenly developed a terrifying phobia for anything smaller than a fly and lets out a terrifying shriek that can be heard all over the world – a shriek which he now finds to be quite fun and so continues shrieking without ceasing for a good twenty minutes – seeing how high up he can get in octave without breaking glass.

He sings Jesus Loves Me This I Know to the sweet foreign gentleman working at the gas station who apparently was not in a singing mood which did nothing to deter junior from singing it louder and louder with more urgency as if threatening to pull out his weapon and pee the poor man to death. I got a dirty look from this old lady beside me and I said, “What? We’re witnessing. Would you be interested in a pamphlet?” That shut her up.

I spend forever in the gym parking lot trying to find the ten-cent red rubber nose he found earlier in the week on the floor of the auto shop that had now rolled under the car. And he’s crying in jags stopping only to hold his breath and I’m under the car screaming, “I’ll give you something to cry about young man” and secretly hoping he doesn’t start holding his breath again – cause the gym nursery won’t take ‘em if they’re blue.

Oh, and get this. He chokes on a piece of gum at the grocery store – right in front of the feminine products, which is just Murphy’s Law. And I pounded him on the back a couple of times like we do to Uncle Willy when he eats steak without his teeth, and the gum finally shoots out. And it was really a crisis, ‘cause that was like my last piece.

And this little old lady gives me this sour look like it was my fault that Junior threw his sandal into her grocery cart and pulled over a display of oranges before I could catch him. And she’s all sour-faced and looking at me like I was something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe, and I’m like, “Look old woman, cut me some slack, he’s not even my kid. Check the milk carton in the back.”

He’s figured out how to roll down the window (used recycled Pintos don’t come with child window locks) and in the course of a four-minute conversation I had on my cell phone (telling my sister why I will never shop at the Wally Mart again) he manages to get his window down, work his way out of his clothes and throw them out, along with his diapers and his socks and his shoes, at intervals along highway 68. All of this in four minutes, while still strapped in and without making a peep. This from a kid who can’t keep the food on his fork from the plate to his mouth.

I could go on, but I’m not. Because I just don’t have the energy is why. And that’s why I’m here. Hiding in the bathroom. While he’s out there. Somewhere. Plotting. Scheming. Lurking. Help me! It’s only 10am. I’m tired.