Beans and Worms

Did I mention that I was a very young mother?  There were a lot of important things I did not know jumping in the ring so early.  It would have been nice to know that my boobs would never be the same again.  Or what is it with that dark line down the center of your stomach?  When you take them home they're like an itty bitty little Shar Pei puppy.  A tiny little Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man with all those adorable looking folds and wrinkles.  It took me a minute to figure out that I was supposed to clean those folds several times a day.  Milk and spit up sour quickly in tiny little folds.  I was so grossed out.  I am sorry to my first born, who involuntary became the test run.  You didn't ask to become a guinea pig but, hey, you survived buddy!  I confess my poor housekeeping skills may have caused some little science experiments to grow in a few of those folds.  So, so gross.  But he got his revenge by hosing my face with Linda Blair style torpedoes.  I wasn't aware people could actually get distance like that, let alone a one month old infant.  So, so, so gross.

My little Beans were very good at doing gross things that those 'what to expect' books didn't talk about.  When my little red headed angel of a Bean, Bean Two to be exact, came to me one evening just before bed, he approached me with concern and a bit of fear in his face.  He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Momma, I have worms in my butt."  Just like that!  Mind you, I was a 22 year old single mother with three little Beans without worldly knowledge or medical education.  WTF!  Real worms?  Moving worms?  Glow worms?  What is happening?  Is this real life man?!  Oh my god oh my god oh my god!  I didn't know at the time about pin worms, so this was a completely alien and terrifying concept to me.  I checked him and, sweet baby jesus, he was right!!!!  In my complete panic thinking my Bean was being devoured from the inside out, Bean One shyly approaches me.  He taps on my arm gently and says, "Momma, I have worms too."  I nearly faint.  I check the baby Bean, and oh my god!  "Everyone put your shoes on! We're going to the hospital!"

Now, I can't even make this shit up!  I waddle into the ER, three Beans in tote, and lean in with panic in my eyes to tell registration that my Beans have worms INSIDE their bodies.  The Medical Assistant at reception didn't flinch.  She goes, "Uh huh.  Did you tell their doctor?"  I indicated the fuckers were just discovered and we rushed over, me fearing for their little Bean lives.  She goes, "Uh huh, have a seat" 

So, here we are in a packed ER waiting room with three little Beans scratching their itching butts way past their bed time.  Bean One, at the top of his lungs, inquires innocently, "Will the doctor take the worms out of my butt?"  Heads turned.  Bean Two needed to add something of importance to the conversation and advised us all that his worms come out of his butt at night and crawl on the bed.  People suddenly need to go outside for a smoke or find a more comfortable chair across the room.  I was dying inside.

Doc explained the whole pin worm process and how to take care of it.  It's funny now, but I really thought my Beans were in danger.  Now we are left with all the memories of the Beans talking loudly in public in a small town about their little worm adventure.

Old Youth

It never occurred to me when I was younger that I would ever need to personally worry about pain and illness the way my grandparents did.  I used to hold my Granny's hand and ask her why there was so much loose thin skin and little brown spots.  And why was Papa always rubbing his knees and taking such a long time to stand up.  But here I am with those same uncooperative knees...and not even 40 years old yet.  Daddy died when he was 40.  Life is short and a cruel bitch.

First they said I had one thing, then another, then another, explaining why treatments were failing miserably.  The pain is unbearable.  I keep a straight face like I have always done.  My Clark Kent sees through it with his xray vision.  The stairs are difficult to navigate.  One step at a time most days.  The medicine is a compromising battle of pain relief verses cognitive function.  I chose pain.

I'm about five minutes away from 'fuck it! we're goin' live!'  But I needed my moment to reflect on my own mortality.  It appears to be a necessity when life shoves it in your face.  Thanks Obama!

Well, fuck me!  Okay what's next?  Where do I go from here?  How about career change?  We'll see how that goes.  You know they ask in my field if you are over 40.  Like, what are you trying to say ya little whipper snapper!  I loved being a waitress.  It was my favorite job by far.  But that was nearly two decades ago and my deteriorating body will not let me return to the glory days.  Stupid body.

How about a hobby?  I want to stitch lovely little tea towels with flowers and profanity, like 'how bout a nice cup of shut the fuck up.'  Adorable.  Maybe I'll paint my dreams.  I tend to be leading some rebellion into battle or out running tornadoes or being sucked out of the atmosphere into outer space.  You know, the regular type stuff.

Cautionary Tale about Tail

I was an extremely young girl when Beans started popping into existence right before my eyes.  I was also a pretty big girl.  After Bean Two I weighed in at 380 pounds.  At 5'6" it was neither a healthy state of being nor a popular look.  I was big all through high school as well.  Oh, if only I could go back in time and tell adolescent me a few things.  I'd let her know those fuckers do not matter and only a very few select people will be there for her at different points in life.  Fuck the rest!  Who cares about them!?!

But i did care, didn't I?  To what extent, to what degree, how far might I go to lose weight during points in my life.  Don't buy into that crap about exercise.  I was hanging sheet rock and ripping up carpet in my youth.  I walked like ten miles every day for 3 years.  That scale only budged when it wanted to confirm yet again what a big fat loser I was. It's eighty percent diet and fifteen percent genetics.  We were eating deep fried Schwan's gourmet delivery every night and the genes were stacked so effin high against me that I couldn't see over to the other side.

In high school I heard about pills you could buy to make you stay awake to study.  Study, pft!  But if you took enough of them you were supposed to lose enough weight to look like Claire Dane.  What?  She was hot shit back in her day.  So I bought into the snake oil since my physical activities had not panned out.  I was taking no doze all day and night for quite some time.  And while I only lost five pounds I knew it was working because I lost five pounds.  Forget about the side effects!  Shakes and palpitations aren't that bad.  Ya know ?!  Then I rediscovered pot and everything slowed waaaaay down as the pounds went waaaaay up.  Who cared if no one wanted to go to prom with me.  I totally didn't want to go anyway.  Then Bean One and Bean Two.  What the hell!!  I couldn't catch a break.

So when the first two little Beans and I moved into a converted garage, I was at my heaviest point.  But to support my Beans I had to start working.  I was offered a job as a waitress in a very special restaurant where it was possible for wait staff to walk dozens of miles a day.  With all my focus on the Beans now, and getting blazed to unwind after they went to bed, I had no time to reflect on the fact that I was dropping weight like crazy.  My clothes were practically falling off.  I had an ass ladies and gentlemen!!!  Eureka!  I had cracked the code to losing weight.  I was walking literally my ass off and eating much less since I was working so much.  Then I had a brilliant idea!!!  Maybe I could speed up the process by eating little to nothing at all.  My perfect diet was born...one oatmeal cream pie cookie and one bottle of gatorade in the middle of the day.  And a splif rolled in black and mild at night.  Boom!

Somehow I managed to survive like this for a year.  Dropping trays as a waitress because you're too weak or had a small blackout is the exact opposite of how you get tips.  That's when I got preggers with Bean Three, my little man.  So I had start eating again anyway.  Did I learn my lesson?  Of course not.  I picked right back up where I left off when I had Bean Three.  You may judge, but unless you know what it feels like to carry the weight of two extra people, you will never understand the desperation in wanting it gone.

There I was with my ass again.  It was beautiful.  I would totally do me.  And I wasn't the only one who noticed.  Being in a new position managing a lot of young men certainly had its perks.  But it also had its incentives.  I continued starving myself for the attention of men.  A few heartbreaks, a dash of questionable behavior, and a few scandalous affairs later and it didn't even seem real anymore.  I didn't seem real.  After a few more episodes of passing out, one of which I had my little Beans soaking in the tub, I realized this wasn't sustainable.  I had to start eating again.  And poof!  Just like that I grew back half of what i had lost.  That was with having to force myself to eat.

In the early 2000's obesity treatment was still very much in its infancy.  At a 150 pounds over weight, I wouldn't have been received well asking for help with anorexia.  Or maybe my lack of protein and mineral enrichment in my diet had caused paranoia.  Either way, how hilariously tragic does that even sound!? I would have been mortified to have anyone, any one single person, to ever associate me to the term obese anorexic.  What the actual fuck? I think this is still a very tender subject as more and more of the medical arena becomes privatized.  Gone are the days Doc Brown says, "Christ!  Jim, how many meals are you eating?!  Knock it off or you'll die ya stupid fart!"  No, doctors are now part of a mostly privatized industry who need to, on some level, keep their patients happy.  They don't even say patient any more, they say client.  Ooo how professional!  Since their clients are free to take their business elsewhere, it would stand to reason at least some of these providers are not pointing out to Jim that he far into the morbidly obese range when he shows up for a bump on the head or high blood pressure.

Lots to think about there.  Thank you all for being my therapist!

Dr. Zoidberg

I'd like to introduce you all to doctor Zoidberg, named so for his cutie pie little lobster claw mitten paws.

Dr. Zoidberg has been with our family for over 7 years. He was a little baby marked for euthanizing when we found him through a rescue service. Dr. Zoidberg is a Hemingway polydactyl, which means he has extra toes.  He is highly likely a descendent of Ernest Hemingway's brood of kitties, as he used to be an avid breeder of polydactyl cats.

Polydactyl cats tend to be experts at navigating ropes and are well adept at ship life.  Hemingway was given a six toed cat when he lived near a Key West port.  He purportedly bread these cats to give to ships captains where he lived next to the port, which act as extremely good mousers during voyages out at sea. As you can imagine, being out to sea for several months means that food rations are coveted.  And where you find stockpiles of food you are going find mice and rats.

So Dr. Zoidberg is actually the descendent of a line of great warriors and valiant regal hunters.  Unfortunately polydactyl cats also tend to have other genetic abnormalities, such as the early decay of teeth.  Poor Dr. Zoidberg has been completely toothless since he was two.  So he's got this deep internal desire to hunt and kill on one hand and a complete ignorance of the outside world on the other.  He used to chitter at the window to little birdies taunting him.  He was big, he was bad, he could take anything down. 

You have to understand Dr. Zoidberg's sparring buddy is a cognitively challenged kitty named Abraham Lincoln who drools on himself and usually has one pupil bigger than the other.  I am positive I also contributed to his overly inflated ego when pretending to be injured as Dr. Zoirberg tried to rip my flesh open as the savage beast he was in his heart, when in reality he just slid his wet slimey gums back and forth across my arm.  Not a pleasant feeling by the way.  But it sure beats when Abraham Lincoln shakes his head in your vicinity and salmon pate scented kitty slobber comes flying into your open mouth.  I mean, what the fuck Abraham Lincoln! Really!?!

So you would think with all our contribution to Dr. Zoidberg's narcissism that he would have been a tad more ferocious on his first outing.  Chittering at the little birds outside the window as always, he one day rushed the screen so hard it popped out of the frame.  There went Dr. Zoidberg...flying out of the first floor window riding that screen on the way down like a magic carpet.  I thought oh shit he's gonna run, being the ballsy adventurous type, you know.  But there was no fierce hunter on that day.  My poor baby landed on top of that screen into the ivy patch below and froze, crying a cry so loud and long I was sure he had broken a bone on impact.  I tried to urge him to stand up because he was just out of reach lying down, but no go.  He just laid there and wailed like he was dying.  I had to go all the way around the corner of the complex to pick him up.  When I reached him he was still screaming for help but when I picked him up the screen came up with him.  He had wrapped every one of his 27 claws through that screen and he was too scared and shocked to let it go.  I was laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants.  So much for our brave little hunter and warrior.  He was fine but he sure doesn't chitter at birds anymore.

The Prez

I watched the President last night, that's as much political information as you'll ever pry from me.  Literally anything else is on the table.  For reals, try me.  But people have been whipped into a frenzy.  I'm not going into the shark pool.  I'll wait it out quietly on the edge watching everyone tear each other apart without cause.  Someone told me a long long time ago to be careful which bandwagons I chose to jump on.  Word.

When my Beans were little, I felt it was my civic duty to explain the role of government, democracy, and politics to them.  I should have waited until they just a tad older to let them know my thoughts on the subject.  By the time I was done educating the Beans, they had been exposed to the dark secrets, the truth no one speaks of - well, except for those shady, veiled characters trying to get the masses on board with the existence of lizard people.  Illuminati confirmed!

Everyone knows there are no lizard people.  Instead, my little Beans were educated properly on the virtue of finding the source of news and so called "information " presented by the media.  At an early age they learned of how the government fed us lies - that's right, we KNOW about Big Foot and the space ship hiding in the Antarctic.   Oh yes, we know!  Boy, by the time I was done sharing with my little Beans they knew the world would end on the last day of the Mayan calendar and that the CIA had sleeper agents.  And of course, I couldn't leave out MK Ultra.  They were fully prepared to wear foil hats for the rest of their lives, but only inside since they listen through the electronic equipment.

Since I'm not into politics or jumping on bandwagons, I only provided them with the need to know basics so they could make their own choices later in life.  When we survived the end of the world - the Mayans were never really good at math - we started prepping for Armageddon of course.  Good times.

It's the little things...

With changes bombarding me with life, career, family, and health and with my new found buddy, brain fog, I have found myself more and more reliant on structure and  schedule.  Much like when my little Beans needed a Mama Bean to tell them when it's time to eat, bathe, and sleep, I have become my own micromanager.

Okay, okay.  So, I'm trying really hard to become my own micromanager.  I am the kind of Type A person who fell in the deep end of the tragedy pool.  So, maybe I've never made a bed of my own accord, that's what comforters are for.  So, maybe I've never folded socks, just make sure they are all the same kind and color.  Boom!  Problem solved!  My little Jumpin Beans never really knew what they could get away with because of my haphazard anal retention.  #parenting101

For this reason they would just consistently push limits and boundaries to test when I would break.  They even strategically formed alliances to catch me off guard.  I'm sure I can write that off as a lesson in business network or some such bullshit life coaching.  No need to feel guilty about letting them get away with something so trivial when we had much bigger fish to fry...like finding to culprit that set the house on fire.

These days I require a bit more self discipline as a way to cope with unpleasant symptoms.  That being said, I'm still very much the opposite of self disciplined.  In fact, I don't even believe in self discipline.   Toss that crock of shit over on the Easter Bunny pile.  If you stay on track for everything, every little detail you had planned for a day on your own without the bribe of money or sex at the end of the day then YOU are a freak.  A freak of nature,  I tell you!  Stop making everyone else feel bad.  You're just showing off.  Pft!

So, I rely on calendars and apps.  I have seven separate alarms on my phone, each with good intentions.   "With good intentions" means I usually just silence the alarm on blind autopilot and forget the task immediately.  If I'm really on the ball, I'll snooze first, then go into ignorant autopilot bliss.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say was, the Clark Kent in my life just bought me a new tablet to help keep myself, and my various alarms, lists, calendars, and apps organized.  It's a work in progress, but with a cover like this success is just around the corner.  Totes!  You may need to avert your eyes from the glittery awesomeness.  You have been warned.

Sweet dreams lovelies...

In the beginning there were beans, beans everywhere...

I never wanted children. I was a child myself when my boys started their journeys as separate, literally detached individuals into this world. I didn't really know what to do with the first two.

I naively rocked the first one to sleep every nap and every bedtime for one year, one month, and three and a half days. It was a grave mistake and I realized this upon returning home with baby number two. For the sake of avoiding eternal embarrassment for my boys, they shall hence forth be known as little Jumpin Bean One and little Jumpin Bean Two. Well, let me tell ya...Bean One was all kinds of pissed that Mama Bean JAC had no time for rockies all day and night with the introduction of the second little burrito Bean. Being young as I was - sex education back where I'm from was plantin the devil's seed, but that's another story entirely - it had not occurred to me to deal with the rockies situation BEFORE little bookie Bean Two came along.

It was a little more than a month later I found myself in an ugly place. The man who helped me cook those little Beans into existence - and I use helped here lightly - landed himself in prison, also another story entirely. So, having no self esteem and a moderate case of agoraphobia, I set out into the world to find a job that would support my little bookie Beans. I landed a waitressing job in a restaurant once featured on South Park and shed an entire person off my back, literally and of a more meta note - also a different story entirely. I had moved forward with life, Daddy Bean be damned, without the weight of a seriously toxic relationship, environment, and physical state of being - also another story entirely.

But I digress. Something else happened as I worked tirelessly to support my tiny Beans. I saw them. Perhaps for the first time, I became fully aware that I had brought these itty bitty adorable and oh so vulnerable creatures into being. How fucking cool is that!? Wait...I mean to say how utterly terrifying is that! I came to the realization these little Beans followed me around like newly hatched ducklings, and it was because I was their entire universe. And it was in that moment they became mine. We loved each other unconditionally and that love carried through to the addition of unexpected Jumpin Bean Three. How Bean number three came into being was, you guessed, a different story entirely.

My point here is that if you are a new mother struggling to understand your role in your tiny little burito's life, relax. It will come. Not everyone, for their own unique reasons, will have that magical bonding moment straight out of the womb with your uterus sitting in a sterile pan across the room. Maybe you are horrified at the idea of raising a child by yourself because your own mother, a single mother herself, never dealt with her clinical depression and ager. Maybe her way of mothering made you worry you would just be repeating the cycle. Maybe you were so very young and resented the lost time of your own childhood. Maybe you didn't grasp the epic level of such a life altering, reality bending, roller coaster of puke and diapers this would actually turn out to be. Maybe you were just plain and simple scared shitless. Would you break this tiny thing? What could you offer it? Are you good enough? Will your vagina ever be the same again?

All of that is okay. You're not a freakish, evil, unloving mother. It will come. Don't be so hard on yourself. And for the love of pampers, take a bubble bath girl!

Please join me as I basically spit walls of word vomit at you in an effort to simulate some self-therapeutic recovery as I empty the nest. We'll laugh, we'll cry, we'll drink wine and fancy cheese, we'llreminisce of days gone by and lessons learned the hard way. Down the rabbit hole we go!