$#%@!

Fuck, shit, motherfucker. Asshole fucker, fuck you, fuck it.

I just read a couple of my last blog entries and I sound like such a namby-pamby sacchrine and revolting ‘Mommy’ that I have to redeem myself with a little good old- fashioned cussing.

Actually, Jaya and I have recently come up with this really fun game. You see, after you have a two-year old that says ‘Crap’, or “Oh, shit” whenever he drops something cause he thinks that’s what you say when you drop something, you start to clean up you language. So after a couple of years of watching our language, Jaya and I take moments when the kids are out of earshot and lean into one another, maybe in the middle of a conversation about where to eat dinner with, “Fuck you, Cocksucker.” This is followed by silent hysterics. Really, we crack up every time and it's a bonding experience. We delight in getting back to our roots, when we went to seedy bars and slept in late and cussed like sailors on a daily basis.

So I am employing a little of this therapy now because I’m feeling like a boring mom. I love being a boring mom, but it’s not the best for the self-image. I also would like to be dynamic, funny, intelligent, sexy and all those other things they say moms can’t be.

That reminds me, I got the best compliment last week. When The Bastard came to visit, we went to the bar and I was all happy and excited to be out. He and I were waiting to order drinks and he told me I looked beautiful and that motherhood suited me. Repeating it now makes it sound like a nice thing you say to a girl you knew once who is now a little boring but still your friend. But it was said in such a sincere way that it really made my day. Thanks, MB. And by the way, Fuck you Motherfucker. 

Time and again

Again, time escapes me.

Last week we had a lovely visit from Magnificent Bastard. Nothing like catching up with old friends over shelled peanuts and karaoke. Topped the visit with Eggs Benedict at Bernardo, plus he let me drive his Mini Cooper – which was small, but loads of fun. I cruised through the neighborhood and for a moment thought about taking off for the border, Vegas maybe, but instead I just went home to pack.

Last Saturday brought us up to the cabin. Took Papa and Pop-pop to our favorite small town restaurant for a Father’s Day feast. Then Papa went off to work and the boys and I have remained to meet a slew of cousins for a fabulous vacation week. We’ve hiked and biked, gone to museums, shopped, spent a day at the lake and on the boat, consumed four jars of cookies and then some.

Sadly, Choco has been battling a fever for several days, but other than that it’s been pure bliss. I’ve been obsessing over wild flowers and taking pictures like a madwoman. I’ve been writing in my head constantly and after nearly a week this is the first time I’ve put anything down where it might last. I even wrote in my dreams the other night. I kid you not in my dreams I was writing about our time here, I don’t remember what now, but I was and I find that bizarre and lovely.

I’ve been thinking about my boys a lot and how every so often I want to come full circle and remind them that I am writing this for them, to them. Of course it is completely therapeutic, but I always come back to the image of my boys as grown men reading these words and retracing our history together. I imagine them getting a glimpse of their mother as more than just that. I imagine them getting a glimpse of the insane love that I have and will have for them until I die. I imagine them seeing me for a moment as the girl I was, the girl I will always be on the inside. I imagine them feeling like boys on the inside too. That in forty or fifty years they will understand the moments I marveled at these little people entrusted to me. How I sometimes sat on the curb with them and ate ice cream and felt like I did 25 years ago, just a bunch of kids enjoying a sunny afternoon.

I digress. This is no surprise, of course.

We will spend two more days up here and then back to the real world. This is always a mixed bag. I love our home, our pets, our routines. But I don’t love the massive responsibility, the bills, the chores, the stress of regular life. But this is a lesson I learned early on waiting tables. If you get a job at a restaurant you really like, it’s ruined for you. 8 hours of rude customers and the smell of your favorite food caked into your palms will turn a dining establishment in a heartbeat. The trick is to keep it close, but a little distanced too. So I will go home tomorrow, and even the bad parts will be ok, because I know this place is waiting for me. And even though home is not the mountains, it is Bluehaven, so who am I to complain?