Where The Fuck Are My Scissors? Part 1,894

My good pair of scissors have gone missing, nowhere at all to be found. I hid those fuckers pretty good, too.

I bought them over the summer because try as I might, my secret, hidden scissors are always found. When they are found out, whoever is borrowing them gets me talking like a possessed person. GIVE ME BACK MY SCISSORS AFTER YOU’RE DONE, I say low and slow.

YOU WILL NOT LOSE THESE AND WILL PUT THEM BACK ONCE YOU ARE FINISHED WITH THEM, I say more as a threat than a suggestion.

As a mom and parent, I share all my shit all of the time. I shared my body for nine months with one of these people. And yet, they can’t put my damn scissors back where they’re supposed to go.

I need to invent mom scissors. I have no idea what that would entail but I do like the sound of others getting a tiny zap every few seconds when my family doesn’t put them back in an alotted amount of time.

Even our crappy, will not cut anything scissors are gone. That’s probably for the best though.

I saw that my husband had that pair in the bathroom with him when he was trimming his hairy berries for his vasectomy.

So, yeah, on the bright side, I know my good scissors weren’t used in that Edward Scissorhands moment.

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The Big V

I was really wanting to have another baby but my uterus isn’t having it. I had another miscarriage this past July and was ripped apart. Infertility is such a mindfuck. It’s consumed me for years. After this last miscarriage, I told my husband I can’t go through anymore and that we are done in the having babies department.

I finally told my husband he needs to get snipped. It’s really time. With all of the surgeries I’ve had, I couldn’t imagine going in for another fucking surgery to get my tubes tied. My husband went to the doctor not long after I told him I can’t go through another pregnancy loss and before I knew it, the time recently came for the vasectomy.

Woo hoo! I didn’t know I would be so happy. I’ve been dealing with all kinds of birth control methods all these years and it’s going to be so nice to not have to worry from my end anymore. We’re not going to have the freedom until about four months after the surgery since they have to test his sperm at the three-month mark and the four-month mark.

I’ll be honest. This has me overcome with emotion since I know I’m ready to close down the baby factory but this closes a big chapter in my life. I always wanted to have at least two kids but I know I’m very lucky that I have one. My heart goes out to the women who’ve been trying for years to have a baby and haven’t been able to.

It also stings when my daughter tells me she would still really like to have a brother or sister.

But, I know this is for the best, especially because I didn’t have to go through the big V. My husband is always so calm, cool, and collected so I was stressing out about the procedure for him.

Which leads me into the prep for his surgery. Let me just say, this is the first time in a long time that I’ve had to share a bathroom with my husband since we moved into our new house last year. His shaved facial hair trimmings drive me mad because they get all over the sink and he’s apparently blind to it.

While preparing for the big V, I now know there’s something worse than facial hair trimmings.

My husband had to shave his balls the night before and ewwww, the hairy ball hair got all over the sink and he set the shaver right by our toothbrush holder. To top it off, there was a pile of pubes teetering in our bathroom trash, just waiting to fall over all over the floor.

I gagged my way through cleaning some of it up and wanted to be like “Dude, can’t you just flush your pubes down the toilet?” But, I wanted to cut him some slack since even though he was acting as cool as a cumber, he had to have had some nerves, although he really doesn’t express his emotions very often.

He eventually cleaned up from the Pube Storm of 2017 but ick, ick, ick.

My husband had the procedure in the afternoon and was given a Valium which was fun to see because I don’t think he’s ever had one before.

When we got home, he was still good and drugged and laid in bed while he put his balls on ice and watched James Bond movies. He had to rest for two days which I know was hell for him because the man never stops moving. If he’s not out mowing the grass, he’s cutting something up with his chainsaw or kayaking or riding his bike.

It’s a pretty strange feeling knowing we won’t be having any more kids. I didn’t realize I would still be longing so much for another child.

It makes me wonder if that feeling ever goes away despite how old I get.

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How Slow Can You Go?

I have a very active 8 year-old who can’t sit still for very long. I also found that 8 is the new 12 when it comes to attitude. Oh, man… the attitude is strong with this age.

She runs circles around me and wears me out in an hour. The hummingbird has the energy for gymnastics, soccer, ice skating, and skiing. But, when it comes to her getting ready for bed, holy shit, she goes so slow.

She’ll be bouncing off the walls and I’ll ask her to clean up her room and then, holy shit, she’s way too tired. The bird will be over at her friend Jake’s house next door for two hours and will come bouncing down the driveway but when I tell her she needs to get some homework done. Holy shit, she’s way too tired.

I would think after four years of her being in school that we would have a morning routine down but, holy shit, it’s a rush to the finish line every damn morning and I run around the house getting her to do her morning things like I’m being chased around the house by rabid dogs.

I would ask if this going slow thing when it comes to our kids gets easier as they get older and they actually speed up but I’m sure the answer is holy shit, girl, it gets worse. I imagine there will be more yelling and me still saying “pleeeeeease, hurry up!”

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I’m A Mess

This past year and a half has been very difficult for me. I had five surgeries within 14 months, starting in 2016. It’s why I haven’t really been blogging as often as I’d like. I won’t bore you with the details of the surgeries but they came in such rapid succession and that’s what has made me go from anxiety with occasional panic attacks to my current state which has transformed to severe anxiety with frequent panic attacks, including the dreaded anxiety attacks first thing in the morning.

I didn’t take as good of care of myself as I should have with each recovery from surgery and it’s definitely taken a toll on me. I feel so anxious all the time and my body still feels like it’s in recovery mode. It’s been frustrating for me because I’m still not 100% physically and the frustration leads to anxiety which leads me to have panic attacks.

If you’ve never had a panic attack, you’re very lucky. Mine starts out with feeling a sense of dread. My heart starts pounding. It’s difficult to catch my breath. My mind starts racing. I feel dizzy. My heart gets to where it feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. I feel like I’m going to give myself a heart attack. The sense of dread increases. My heart’s beating so fast, my mind is racing, I’m feeling dizzier, and there are times I even get so worked up that I throw up from the anxiety and panic. It feels like I’m a prisoner in my own body and want nothing more that to escape myself.

So, for the past 18 months, my anxiety has grown to where it can be debilitating at times. I’m getting more concerned now because this is the time of year that my depression starts rearing its ugly head.

Since I cut out all news out of my life last month, the anxiety has become a little more manageable. I’ve been trying to ride out the panic attacks without reaching for my xanax prescription but that can be really difficult. Hmmm, would I rather feel like I’m in a fight or flight state of panic for half the day or should I take something that I know in 20 or so minutes will have me feeling more in control of my thoughts? But, I don’t want to have to depend on medication every time.

The problem is, I still have an ongoing medical issue and while I’ve had two surgeries for it where I thought both times that I’ll finally be feeling healthy again and won’t have to deal with this problem anymore. Low and behold, once I’m confident it’s finally not an issue anymore. the fucking thing pops back up. I feel like there’s no end in sight and my ENT doctor has been calling this “unusual and rare”.

He seems to be at a total loss about what to do and mentioned sending me to Boston. For now though, he’s waiting to see if medication will help. I know it’s not going to because in the past it never did.

I’m just feeling so frustrated and at a loss.

What I’ve been missing is writing. I know that’s something that will help clear my head and help my anxiety while also giving me an escape from these ongoing medical issues.

I just don’t know if I can still keep up the blogging, not that I’ve really been keeping it up that often. But, I’ve been blogging for over seven years now and I’m not quite sure I can completely let it go. So, for now, I figure what the hell, even if I don’t have much to say, I should just write anyway. It’s such a nice vacation from my anxiety ridden mind and the physical pain I’m still in.

So, now you know what’s been going on since last year. It feels good to clear the air and talk about the terrible time I’ve been having.

I know I’ll get through this rough time but right now it feels like it’s going to last forever. I’ll leave you for now by saying thank you for listening to my issues.

I’ve got issues, you’ve got them too, so give yours to me and I’ll give mine to you.

Your welcome for getting that song stuck in your head.

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Basketcase

Dear laundry,

I’ve been trying to bite my tongue about this but I’ll just come out with it. Why do you gotta be such a dick? You fill up within hours of me finally getting the laundry done for the week. It would be nice to let me bask in the “I’ve got all the laundry done, hallefuckingluluah!”, glow. But, nope. I’ll slide open the dresser drawer, put the clothes in, and a minute later, you’re laughing in my face with the basket halfway full within minutes.

During the winter, it’s especially hellish because my husband has thick, flannel lined everything where only one of his outfits takes up the entire clothes basket. We live in New England after all, and for half the year, our clothes are super bulky.

Oh, joy!

It seems the colder it gets, the longer it takes me to get around to folding the laundry. Actually, I take that back. It always takes me a long time to fold the laundry.

I’ve tried keeping up with the laundry by doing a load every day but that just makes me want to burn all our clothes and join a nudist colony.

So, I do the laundry in one big haul over the weekend.

Friday rolls around. Oh, what the hell. Let’s get a load of laundry started because I want to get a leg up and it’s usually around 8 pm and after a few glasses of wine. Anything sounds fun after a few glasses of wine. Even laundry.

By 9 pm, I’m about ready to drop dead from the insomnia I’ve dealt with all week and leave the laundry in the washer overnight.

My husband, my very sweet husband, I might add, lets me sleep in late on the weekends since he knows I deal with insomnia. I get up ready to tackle the several more loads of laundry for the weekend.

Kidding.

It’s all I have to properly function like a semi-productive human in the morning. I don’t seem to fully wake up until 2 pm on the weekends because I’ve been doing tedious, mind-numbing shit all week. Just making sure my kid gets to school in the morning feels like I’ve run a marathon.

So, laundry.

I look forward to thee as much as I do constipation.

Never!

And there you sit, overnight, in the washer because the wine made me feel like I’m queen of the world so I will tackle these several loads of laundry.

Oh, but what’s that? My husband is going to throw in a “quick” load of his work clothes after putting the other load of laundry into the dryer. Meaning, he’s going to throw them in the damn washer, start the damn washer, and take off doing everything except the damn laundry he just put in the damn washer. I know I shouldn’t complain and that’s more than some husband’s do but seriously. Seriously?!

I want to say thanks for making me do an extra load I didn’t know existed and that you will now forget it until Sunday night.

This laundry isn’t going away no matter how much I try to conjure up my fairy godmother and the woodland creatures that help around the house in fairy tales. This shit isn’t doing itself.

Finally, with two cups of coffee, I get the momentum to conquer this tower of dirty clothes. And then… then, I’m like fuck this shit by the last load of laundry that’s finally finished on Sunday evening. The “quick” laundry load my husband started on Saturday morning has long been folded and hung up.

I just can never seem to fold that last load of laundry. I have good intentions to fold it and put it away but that dies off day by day.

It starts like this:

Oooh, I’m a nice, fresh load of laundry straight out of the dryer. I want to be folded.

And I’m like “Eh, I’d rather watch “The Handmaid’s Tale” again or “13 Reasons Why”, I’ll do it tomorrow.

Monday morning comes around. After being awake for a few hours, I turn on the dryer for a couple of minutes to de-wrinkle the clothes. Then, I fold them and put them away.

Kidding.

I forget about it. Until, later that night when all I have left for my underthings is my period underwear. That’s when I know I can’t procrastinate much longer. When I hit that part of my panty drawer, I know it’s time to get serious about laundry.

So, I turn on the dryer again and put it in the basket. I’m so close to folding that last damn basket of damn laundry but what happens? There’s usually some excuse for my 8 year-old to get out of bed 50 times a night.

I push the laundry basket to the side of the closet and tend to the hummingbird. Finally, I just want to crawl into bed and fall into a coma.

Tuesday. The basket is still sitting there.

Wednesday. I’m in quite a pickle because I’m on my last pair of period underwear.

Thursday. Time to fold. But, the clothes are so wrinkled and have been sitting there so I’ll deal with it later. I start a new load of laundry. I even actually dry it, fold it, and put it away. And yet, there in the corner of the closet is the basket of whites that is begging for attention, wanting to be folded and put away.

Next thing I know, it’s the weekend and more damn laundry. That poor basket of clean clothes that has been sitting in the closet are there until Monday.  I want to just throw them in the dryer but there’s usually someone in this house, my husband, who mixes the dirty clothes with the clean clothes basket.

I know there’s an easy solution, just fold the damn laundry in the first place, but that’s no fun. So, I wash it again and this time, I grab a few things out of the dryer and put them away because it’s past bedtime and I will end up lying awake in bed for a few hours before I get up and watch Teen Mom 2 on the DVR instead of folding laundry.

I’ll fold the laundry in the basket tomorrow. Or maybe by next Saturday.

Definitely by next Monday.

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I Thought I Was So Cool With My Cassette Player And Smurf Tape

When I was about 8 years-old, I was given a cassette player. It was during the height of smurf popularity in the 80’s and I was given a smurf tape that I played over and over and over again. Singing the smurf songs at the top of my lungs made me feel like a fucking rock star.

Now, when I come across pictures of myself during that time, I was a total dork. But, at the time I thought I was so cool. Yeah, sure. The picture of me in a mullet hairdo and an obnoxious Cosby Show sweater tell me otherwise.

I soon graduated from the smurfs to Rick Springfield, then my biggest loves of all… John Taylor and Duran Duran. Those were the days.

I didn’t understand the level of annoyance that playing those cassette tapes over and over must have caused my mom.

I have an 8 year-old and my eardrums are being tortured by Kidz Bop. I’m now understanding what my mom had to go through with my musical phases.

We listen to the Kidz Bop satellite station most of the time when we’re in the car. I can’t even put into words how much Kidz Bop annoys the fuck out of me. It’s almost as bad as my daughter’s Calliou phase, although I don’t think it’s possible that anything can annoy me more than that little asshole.

But, Kidz Bop is up there.

My daughter has even schooled me on the names of the Kidz Bop kids. Yes. I now know which one is Brianna. Okay, I don’t really but when we see her in a video, my daughter excitedly says that’s her and I just say mmmhmmm.

I never knew so much about parenthood was about pretending like you know what the hell your kid is taking about, shaking your head in agreement, and saying mmmhmm.

My most embarrassing moment this past week was when my daughter and I were driving home from the library. Whenever I hear Ed Sheeran’s song, Photograph, I tear up every damn time. No, I’m not ashamed of it! That’s a really great song and nobody can tell me any different. Nobody, I say!!

The radio was playing a Kidz Bop version of the song. I thought to myself, “Oh, please. This is going to be awful.”

Two minutes later, tears were rolling down my face.

Damn you, Kidz Bop!

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Shoo Fly, Don’t Bother Me

I don’t like my psychiatrist. I’m sure he’s an okay guy but he comes off as really cold. But, I deal with him since I don’t really have any other options.

I usually dread going to his office and leave there more stressed than when I went in. I’ve been having some severe anxiety and frequent panic attacks for months now and it feels like I’m slowly suffocating under the weight of this anxiety.

I was pouring my heart out to this psychiatrist at my last appointment and he started eating a banana. I always laugh at the worst times. Nervous laughter. Seeing him eat a banana combined with me feeling very emotional and in tears combined with the phallic shape of the banana combined with my mind is that of a 12 year-old boy equals laughter.

He gobbled down the banana while I composed myself and the tears started coming. He starts swatting at the air and I try to continue talking to the spastic display in front of me.

He took notice and said “It’s a fruit fly. Go on….”

At this point I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I had been practicing what I wanted to say to him for weeks. And, there he is, swatting with both hands with his arms flailing about.

I’m trying so hard to keep a straight face while he continues swatting at this fruit fly. I went back to being an emotional mess and my head was down. When I was about to tell him something really difficult, he slapped his knee and said “Got it!”

I looked up to see him wiping off the remains of the fruit fly in his hand.

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