She Gave Me Life, I Gave Her Stretchmarks. Sounds Like a Fair Trade To Me

Thirty-six years ago today, a young woman gave birth to a squalling infant.

That infant would be me.

My birth day. Literally.

That squalling infant grew into a precocious child.

Precocious is generally a polite word for 'annoying know it all'.

Gr.1. I remember that shirt. It was not the last plaid shirt with a bow around my neck that I would wear.

The precocious child grew into a sullen tweenie bopper.

She wore her hair like a boy's and spent most of her days in red stirrup sweat pants and an over-sized red and white striped sweatshirt.

Her fashion sense has not improved much since then.

Ten. My grandma baked that cake. Sigh. Caaaaake.

Time slipped past and suddenly that sullen tweenie bopper wakes to find herself staring smack into age 36.

She wishes she had cake. Or a hair brush.

Oh yay! 36! Sweet baby Jeebus, how did this happen?

Thanks Mom, for you know, the whole gestation and birthing thing you did for me. It was probably the best gift you ever gave me. Almost as good as the bike you and Dad gave me on Christmas morning but not near as cool as that framed portrait of John Wayne you once gave me.

Still. Life. I have it.

36 years of it, thanks to you and Dad. Thanks for the giving me the gift of life.

I'm still waiting on that pony I asked for though.

Just sayin'.

Just kidding Mom. Maybe.

Razors, Wit and Puberty. Ouch

Thanks to my smalls, I was struck down by the plague last weekend and my nose was raw and running for most of the week. In an effort to staunch the flow I went into the bathroom to get some toilet paper to shove up my nostrils (you're all welcome for that visual) and found my son standing at the bathroom counter.

He was shaving. With my razor.

He's not yet fourteen years old.

My legs are currently fuzzier than his face has ever been. (Again, you're welcome for the visual.)

"What are you doing Frac?" I asked cautiously, as I watched him hold the razor under his nose.

"Shaving." Swipe, swipe.

"Yes, I can see that. But I really meant to ask, why are you shaving? And why are you using my razor to shave with?"

"The fuzz was getting rather thick. Puberty. It's harsh." Swipe, swipe.

"And my razor?" I mean, he had to know it was mine. It's pink. His father avoids anything pink unless it's the inside of a steak or cotton candy.

"Dad didn't have any blades for his. He must have taken them all with him up North."

I see. Except I didn't. Because my son is 13. And blonde. And hairless. He's like one of those giant hairless cats I used to beg my husband to buy me.

I watched him shave his invisible whiskers and rinse off the blade and pat his face dry. I imagined this was a proud moment for him as a soon to be man and I didn't want to harsh his mojo with my motherly scoffing. I was stuck in the twilight zone of witnessing my son rush to be a man when all I wanted to do was keep him a boy for a moment longer.

"Let me have a look," I asked as he started to wipe up his mess.

"Aw Mom," he blushed.

With my face inches from his, I examined his boyish face, and felt the smoothness of the skin I helped create.

It was a scene so tender it should have been a razor commercial.

Until he handed me my razor and said, "Here Mom. You may want to use this. Looks like your moustache is coming in a little thick too."

The upside of him growing up and being taller than me is, while he can clearly see my own invisible moustache, at least he no longer sees the plethora of chin whiskers sprouting from under my face every day like his sister still can.

There's that, I suppose.

So while you all go and enjoy your weekend, I'll be here crying over the fact my moustache is thicker than my son's and plucking my chin whiskers one by one.

Awesome.

If you need any reading material, I've got a new post up over on Hogwash from A Hoser. I should have titled it "Your parenting is pissing me off" but I didn't think the Babble Gods would appreciate that. Feel free to add your two cents or tell me what a lame ass judgy witch I am.

And if you've got 90 seconds to spare and want a giggle, I've also got a new Momversation video up. I'm talking sex. There may be a reason my husband keeps offering to buy me a ball gag. This video may be reason number infinity.

I'd totally take him up on that ball gag thing but I'm too scared my moustache hairs would get caught in it. Ouch.

Have a great weekend everyone!

My Kid Is Cuter Than Yours

When my husband and I adopted Jumby, we didn't really think about what he'd be bringing home  with him. We were more concerned of the vast quantity of unknowns that comes with the closed adoption of a victimized five year old.

We worried about not knowing his biological history and we worried we didn't have a firm grasp on his medical issues. We worried about not knowing his preferences and we fretted over not having any pictures of him from his past.

We never worried about his personal belongings because we took for granted that everyone accumulates an assortment of items to call their own, even at the tender young age of five.

We were mistaken.

Our son came home with the clothes on his back, his wheelchair, his personal medical equipment, a bath seat and a ratty old blanket his former foster parents used to wrap him up like a burrito when he was 'acting out.'

We promptly trashed the ratty blanket when we got home. Jumby acts out about as much as fish in a bowl. He's awesome like that.

I can't replace the lost memories of my son's infancy or toddler years, nor can I acquire a complete medical history for my son unless I invited the very people who first victimized him back into his life.

But I could start giving the child his very own wardrobe to call his own. And boy have I done so with a vengeance.

Thanks to Babble and Old Navy offering the Jumbster a 150 dollar gift card for a sponsored shopping trip, I've been able to stuff even more clothes into his closet.

Jumby's new shirt reads: If you can read this you are in my way. Seriously, I'm gonna need you to move over a little. Which, for a boy in a wheelchair, it's the total truth.

Everyone needs new kicks now and then. Especially helpful if the kicks fit over his AFO's and can't be easily kicked off every two minutes. 

If you'd like to read more about Jumby's little shopping adventure and witness him be the best little Zoolander out there, head on over to Hogwash from a Hoser.

There's links to a printable coupon you can use to get 30% off one item in the store, but more importantly, there are cute ass pictures of my kid up over there.

(What can I say? Sometimes the mommy blogger in me comes out loud and proud.)