A childhood reflection of school… (written in 2004)

It all started at age three, with that age came nursery school.  The very first day I was put into a corner and cried myself into hiccups.  All because I hit a little boy on the head with a cardboard brick .  Hey, what can I say… I was playing with the green phone first.  I will never forget the teacher, a giant compared to me, grabbing my skinny little arm and telling me that I needed to learn how to share with the other children and until I did I would have to sit in the corner.  In my opinion, the little jerk needed to give up the phone.  Instead, he got to play with it for the duration of playtime and I developed a hatred of school and possibly people in general from that day forward.

Kindergarten was interesting.  I’ll never forget the day when a little boy in my class who had a glass eyeball accidentally had it pop out and drop to the floor.  The whole class stared in horrified amazement as his eye rolled across the linoleum.  True story… it really happened.  REALLY- creepy.  That year was the beginning of a long episode of imagination and detention.  My mother was completely stunned when she came to school to meet with the teacher for my first open house.  Thanks to my creativity and imagination, she learned from my teacher that my father had been shot in the head during a terrible hunting accident and that she herself was soon to be expecting another baby.  After receiving both sympathy and congratulations, she could only stammer “another baby?”

That year of kindergarten also started what I refer to as my “self-defense” phase.  Known to others as my kicking and punching  phase.  Kids can be cruel even at a young age, and boys at that time seemed to me especially vindictive.  So I became a little combative and in defending myself, they would get kicked or punched in the private.  An area I had learned very quickly seemed to do the most damage.  By the time I was halfway through the year, I had every little boy in the class terrified of my black patent leather shoes.  Sometimes my kicking was accidental and unfortunately my beloved future brother-in-law was dealt more blows to his nether regions than I’d like to take credit for.  To this day it amazes me that he and my sister have three children, because I’m sure at some point he thought I did some permanent damage.

I would love to say that elementary school went by fast, but it didn’t.  The days dragged on and on and it seemed as if each year got worse.  Second grade came along and with it my own desk in a corner of the room with a blue folder taped to it labeled “Completed Homework.”  This file usually remained empty, so my teacher decided to implement a different tactic  to help my distraction and to keep me focused.  A big orange divider was placed on my desk with the direct purpose to hide the class from me and to make me the outcast and laughing-stock of the second grade.  To this day I still think I need therapy.  I really hated second grade.

I don’t remember much of third grade.  Mostly because I had my head on my desk for the entire year so old, spinster Miss Robinson didn’t have to deal with me.  I do remember one special moment when a girl in my class wiped a boogie in another girls hair who was standing in line ahead of her.  I wasn’t a fan of third grade either.

Fourth grade did away with the orange divider and placing your head on your desk.  I had graduated to marking down the number of times I got up out of my seat with little slashes on a piece of paper.  Now, I have to admit… even to this very day I don’t see what that was supposed to do, because it didn’t matter to me.  I thought it was funny.  I would get out of my seat just so I could make a slash.

From fourth until about seventh grade my childhood went through a transitional period.  It seemed as if everyone else around me was hitting puberty and making out after school at the basketball court.  “Smear the Queer” was a popular sport played at recess by most of the boys in my class, which involved whipping a kick ball at each other’s heads as hard as you could; if you were struck, you were out.  This was a very intense game that would often single out the weak from the strong.  The boys found this to be highly amusing.  However, nothing could compare to the “Atomic Wedgies” given on a daily basis.  The most lethal experience any male child of that age could have.  This would happen to the unsuspecting boy as he innocently changed in the locker room or was caught at the urinal.  He would be held onto by two other boys and a third boy would reach down the back of his pants and pull his underwear so far up his arse it would cover his head.  At least that was the goal… to rip the band up over the head of the victim.  This cruel form of entertainment was only considered a success if the band of the underwear ripped away from his briefs entirely.

Girls were wearing bras and talking about shaving their legs.  I, however, was not yet capable of filling out anything that would be considered a bra and I had no idea why anyone in their right mind would shave their legs.  The thought of a sharp metal object grazing my very flesh was enough to give me nightmares.  At the time, I still slept with a nightlight on and once in a while snuck into my parents bed to sleep with them.

I will admit that I may have been a tad precocious, however, in my opinion I feel that most of my childhood issues were a direct result of my unsquelchable personality and lack of tolerance for stupidity.  I remained a child for much longer than my peers and gratefully so.  I have to give an enormous amount of credit to my mother who was subjected to my social and academic discrepancies for all those years.  Now she laughs as I chase a two-year-old version of myself around the house.  It’s true what’s said… “What goes around comes around.”  I just hope by now, they’ve done away with the orange folder and atomic wedgies… for my son’s sake.

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Reasonable Insanity (from 2004)

I’m losing my mind, if I’ve not lost it already.  “I want my binkin!  Mommy, I want my binkin!” my two-year-old screams at me.  Ah yes, let’s play the missing binkie game for the ten billionth time today.  The binkie A.K.A. pacifier is once again missing.  It’s past his bedtime and it’s showing with every frenzied howl let loose from his mouth.  I search frantically, room to room, moving furniture, shuffling through toys and checking the garbage.  He continues to scream, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I sear to God and his Holy Mother, the damn “binkin” has legs and walks away and hides on its own.  I just bought a new pack of them last week and now all four are mysteriously missing, but will surely turn up stuck to my wallet inside my purse or frozen to the box of Popsicles in the freezer.

I turn to my hysterical, exhausted son and scream back, “Where did you put it sweetheart?”  My ability to rationalize has flow out the window and has left me standing here stomping my feet and screaming back at him.  “Uptairs,” he sobs, so up I run, stumbling and tripping every other step.  I search room to room, under my bed, in the plants and in the dreaded toilet.  I am so desperate that I am considering finding it there a blessing and with a quick dip in some Clorox we’d be good to go.  Unfortunately, nothing!  Not a damn binkie in the whole house.

His wails are becoming more and more wild and my head is pounding.  In one last desperate attempt, I throw myself on the floor in his room and find behind several large and disgusting dust bunnies, the culprit causing my current anxiety attack.  It’s old and dirty and probably carrying some bacteria I’ll pay for later, but it’ll have to do.  I run downstairs and wash it as best as I can with soapy, hot water and practically trip over my own feet as I lunge towards my hiccupping, hysterically crying child.  Immediately he stops.  The overwhelming silence is eerie, but welcomed.  My ears are ringing and my heart pounding and I feel the urge to sob with relief myself.  Instead I carry my emotionally spent and exhausted son up the stairs and lay him down in his crib.  I tense briefly as he starts to cry again, but soon he settles and falls quickly to sleep.  I walk back down the stairs wondering if he’ll take his “binkin” to college with him and then decide, if he carries on like that I might just let him.

Can’t sleep… a really mean message

I should be sound asleep right now, but I was in bed thinking about a conversation I had today that left me a little rattled about how disgusting people really can be.   I have such a low tolerance for society in general anymore that if I had to rate it on a scale of 0-100 my tolerance level would be a 5… on a good day.  I can’t even imagine how truly dangerous I would be if I had a taser gun.  Oh my God that would be GREAT!  I’d be taking people down left and right…  Like the idiot swearing a his little girl in the shopping cart at Wal-Mart the other day… taaaasssserrrrr!

I googled “I hate people” the other day to see what would come up.  It was a bunch of crap like “Don’t hate people, love yourself” and “You might be depressed if you hate people” or “If you hate people you hate yourself more.”

Not it!  Sorry…

What I was really looking for was:

“I hate people too” or “Welcome to the club” and “You’re not alone, people suck.”

I asked my doctor if there was a pill I could take for the hating of people.  She told me no and that my best bet was to avoid them as much as possilbe.  That’s bonofied medical advice!  I’ve been trying to follow, but I seem to be a magnet for idiots.  Beware… they’re everywhere.

A quick recap of the week so far…

Around 4:30 in the morning last Thursday I woke to my 4-year-old talking loudly in the shower.  I could hear my husband (who had gone in to lay down with him earlier in the night) answering while at the same time I could hear the washer running.  Exhausted, being 5 months pregnant, I was a tad disoriented at first.  I looked at the clock thinking that it was time to get up and start the day.  However, when I glanced again at the time and it glared back at me… 4:31 am, I quickly swung out of bed to see what was going on.  I met my husband at the bathroom door as he was throwing vomit covered sheets into the wash.  My 4-year-old was chatting loudly from behind the shower curtain.  My husband explained that Kian woke up, told him his tummy hurt and then abruptly threw up everywhere.  I glanced in behind the curtain and took in his pale, yet smiley face.  Little did I know, that was the beginning to a vomit filled week ending only today.  This GI bug was the equivalent to a F5 tornado tearing through some poor little town in Kansas.  Lasting 24 hours at the minimum, it took down the 4-year-old, 1-year-old, me, my husband and finally ended last night with my oldest who started getting sick at 12:30 am.  I had just recovered enough earlier that evening to get back to being mom (thank God).  However, my husband who barely made it home from work that morning and went straight to bed…(pillar of strength) was still in bed.  He had a full 36 hours of recovery.

Which was good because he did have to work nights tonight but made the mistake of sending me this text earlier during a crazy point in the evening “Feeling kinda crappy… how u makin’ out?”

This was my response… (which came later after all had settled)

“Don’t talk to me about feeling crappy… wimp! I’m trying to clean the downstairs bathroom that reeks like Pee (because the 4-year-old CANNOT HIT THE TOILET),in the mean time… the baby had just dumped dirt from a plant all over the floor, Kian had taken a sharpie to the brand new dinning room table and bench, Braeden,I thought for sure broke the computer, at the same time Kian was stabbing the baby with a sharpened pencil, as I was trying to clean up the dirt that was spilled, Kelan (the baby) was unloading the dishwasher of dirty dinner dishes, that I just loaded, all over the kitchen floor and to top it off Braeden and Kian started fighting over the pencils.”

Boo hoo… sorry you’re feeling crappy.

His response… “I ❤ U!”

I sent the two oldest up to their rooms before there was some serious carnage and began the hour and a half long ritual of getting the baby settled for bed.  Before Braeden went upstairs, he said to me (as I was trying to get the dishes put back and clean up the sharpie mishap)…

“Mom, Kelan really shouldn’t be playing with those pencils.”

I said “He’s okay they’re not sharpened.” (thinking as long as he’s quiet for two seconds)

He said “Yeah I know mom, but it’s still not a good idea… he could still fall on one and get it in his eye or get hurt.”

I just stopped what I was doing and looked at him.  I thought… really you moron!  Let’s let the baby play with some pencils.  Glad it takes a ten-year old to point that out to you!

Needless to say I thanked Braeden for his astute, adult like observation and took the pencils away from a very disgruntled Kelan.  I went back to my cleaning thinking he should be in charge!

Can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings!

Getting started…

My sister invited a medium to her home for a “psychic party” back in November.  This woman said a number of interesting things to  each of the twelve women present.  One of the many things she told me was to start writing again.  That I would lose myself, like so many mom’s do, if I didn’t start writing again.  I used to write in a journal every night before I went to bed when my oldest son was just a baby.  He is now ten.  It was encouraged by a wonderful, inspirational women who was a professor of mine.  Carol Burdick was in her mid 70’s when she was inspiring me to put my sarcastic thoughts about my crazy life on paper.  At the time I was doing my writing, I was a single parent, working full-time and taking (at one point) 16 credit hours.  Needless to say that at the time I had a lot to write about.  It was a kind of therapy.  She had endured a great deal of hardship and had written about it in a number of publications.  I am by no means a great writer… my style of writing is sometimes repetitive and my spelling is terrible.  I’m sure that my sister will get on to read these posts and let me know that “they’re cute but you misspelled a bunch of words”.  She will therefore be dubbed my editor.  Unfortunately she won’t be paid an editors salary.  Sorry Coll…

The title “A Message of Mean from Meghan” comes from an email I recently sent to my sister Tracy and a friend.  That was the title of the email… which was full of my sarcasm and truthful, yet at times, abrasive humor.  They, being a tad mean themselves, found it to be rather funny and my sister said she loved getting emails like that.  Especially in the middle of a stressful work day when she could use a little humor.  I told her I was thinking of starting a blog, which she thought was a good idea… just too bad that I wouldn’t get paid for it.

My thought was to be able to put the events of my day here for you read.  Only because I know so many other moms (parents) feel the way I do at times.  Maybe you’ll want to share your feelings or thoughts with me.  So feel free to laugh or cry along with me… I hope this brings you some therapy too.