My Daughter

By: Shannon Ralph

She is always hungry. Always. She is never tired. Or so she says. You know that is not true, however. When she gets tired, she gets these deep dark black circles under her eyes. So dark, in fact, that she looks like she’s been punched in the face. And she gets cranky when she is tired. Even more so when she is sick. You don’t want to be around her when she is sick. She will follow you from room to room loudly lamenting the unfairness of her lot in life. As a matter of fact, she is always the first one to point out any unfairness she comes across in life—actual or made up in her ever-working little brain.

She is beautiful. Perhaps I am biased, but I don’t believe so. She has a smile that lights up her entire face. She may be selective with who she will share that smile with, but when she gives you the gift of one of her gorgeous grins you sense that you have been given a true treasure. She has a giggle that comes from her toes. She also has a screech that can easily pierce eardrums from across the room. She is loud. Loud like no child I have ever met.

She is also shy. Painfully shy. She is unsure of herself in social situations. You want to reach out and grab her and hold and shield her from any scrutiny she might receive, real or imagined. But you don’t grab her and hold her. You know she needs to do this on her own. She needs to face these fears. She has to learn to be comfortable in her own skin. Really, that’s all you want for her. To be comfortable being the extraordinary child you see. The child she might hide from the rest of the world, but the child you are blessed enough to know intimately.

She is smart. Quick. She doesn’t think she is as smart as her twin brother because he is a better reader. Better at math. Better at picking up on things quickly. Sophie takes her time. She studies situations. She approaches a problem with a thoughtful diligence that you can only admire. She is careful. Mindful. You wish she would not compare herself to her brother. She has an amazing intellect. She has always had a way with words—a propensity for language—that is beyond her years. She devours books just like you did as a girl. You wish you had more time to read to her.

She is a cuddler. A lover. Even at five years old, she likes nothing better than to cuddle up on in your lap. She wants hugs. And kisses. And back rubs. She wants to put a cover over your head and make the world cease to exist except for a giggly little girl and her momma in a “tent”.

She is this amazing girl who is both 100% tomboy and an absolute princess at the same time. She is a phenomenon to behold. You are infinitely thankful that you are one of her inner circle. One of the few she allows to have intimate knowledge of everything she is. Everything she can be.

She is a wonder.

Suckage

By: Shannon Ralph

I got a new bathing suit in the mail today. I ordered it online. I wanted the same suit that I had last year. The same suit that no longer fits me. It fit me beautifully two years ago. It was a bit snug last year. And this year? After a fifty-pound weight gain in two years, there is NO getting it on my body. So I ordered a new one online. I knew exactly what suit I wanted, so why torture myself by actually going to the mall and trying on suits? I don’t need that kind of trauma. Therapy is too damn expensive.

The suit I bought is a Miraclesuit. It supposedly sucks you in. In all the right places. The problem is that there really is not enough suckage in this world to do the job properly. As a matter of fact, a black hole would have to descend from the far reaches of outer space and land on my body for there to be enough suckage to make me feel comfortable in a bathing suit. Alas, I have to have one since we are taking the kids to the ocean next month. So I forked over the money for the expensive sucking suit and ordered it online.

Let me tell you, there is no greater feeling in the world than pulling a bathing suit out of a manilla bubble envelope, declaring to the entire house “My God! This is freaking HUGE!”, and then barely being able to wedge your body into it. Yes, it looks like it would fit any and all major appliances in my kitchen. But instead, it fits me. My entire head—from chin to the tippy-top of my skull—would fit in one of the boob holders. Seriously. I think my 40-pound boxer could comfortably curl up in one of those cups and nap the day away. But I needed a bathing suit. So a bathing suit I bought.

Now I need to find a cover up. Yes, I bought a bathing suit. Yes, I intend to wear the bathing suit. But, in no uncertain terms, will anyone actually see me in the bathing suit. I will be covered at all times. You know…to protect against skin cancer. Yea…that’s it. I don’t want to risk exposing my alabaster skin to the sun’s harmful UV rays.

Or something like that.

Tales of a 3rd Grade Schlub

By: Shannon Ralph

My son, Lucas, has never been one to participate in a lot of extracurricular activities. In preschool, we signed him up for soccer. It was a disaster. He grabbed the ball and refused to let go. He ran around in circles screaming “Mine! Mine! Mine!” and crying hysterically. He was not exactly a team player. When he was in kindergarten, we tried to get him to join the Lego Club. He had no interest. In 1st grade, we tried to introduce him to the Science Club. Nope. Not a lick of interest. In 2nd grade, we suggested the Chess Club. Again, he expressed a tiny bit of interest until he discovered that the Chess Club meets after school. Immediately, his interest waned. After school, Lucas wants to do nothing but come home, crash on our couch, and pollute his brain with television and/or video games.

This year, Lucas is in 3rd grade. We didn’t even try. We gave up on athletics years ago when Lucas was a mere toddler. He has absolute zero interest in—or talent for—athletics. Plus, athletics implies a modicum of outdoorsiness. Lucas is the antithesis of “outdoorsy.” As a matter of fact, he once had a butterfly land on his shoulder and you would have thought that it was a vulture trying to carry him off, with the way he screamed and squealed and carried on. We didn’t even mention the Lego Club or the Science Club or the Chess Club to our indoors-loving, video-gaming, pale, pasty schlub of a son.

So imagine my absolute surprise when, out of the blue, Lucas is finding extracurricular activities he is interested in this year. All on his own. My son recently joined the Metropolitan Boys Choir. His music teacher at school recommended him and, rather than recoil in terror, Lucas actually expressed interest. The choir does not meet after school, but they do rehearse for two hours every Saturday morning….right smack dab in the middle of Lucas’s usual Saturday morning cartoon fest. And he willingly, and of his own accord, chose to join the choir. We were thrilled! Never mind that it involves monthly tuition. And fundraisers. And 30 minutes of practice a day. And numerous “volunteer opportunities” for his mommas. Never mind that I had just breathed a sigh of relief over the end of Girl Scout cookie season. My son had joined a group of his peers—albeit, a pale, pasty, dorky group—of his own volition. I was one proud momma.

Yes, I was excited about Lucas’s new-found social prowess. That is, until yesterday. Now I think we are approaching a slippery slope. A dangerous, slippery slope that threatens to engulf us all. Yesterday, Lucas brought home a gigantic piece of blue display board. Hmmm….what’s that about?

Well, let me tell you what that is about. My son has decided to—voluntarily and without requirement—participate in his school’s annual Science Fair. What the hell?! As if he does not have enough homework on a regular basis, I now must assist him in coming up with, implementing, and documenting a science project. I. Me. The woman who has pretty much zero free time as it is. So what did I do when I got home from work yesterday? I spent an hour and a half on the internet helping Lucas come up with a science fair project suitable for a 3rd grader. What about his contribution? All I got was “Hmmm….ummm….let me see….magnets are cool. Or maybe space?” Yep. That’s the Lucas we all know and love.

So…this week I will be volunteering for the Metropolitan Boys Choir’s annual Spring Concert and Silent Auction. Next week I will be standing next to Lucas at the Hale Science Fair as he explores the question: Which is stronger—Gravity or Magnetism?

I think I prefer Schlubby Lucas to Socialite Lucas.

(On a related note, what exactly does it say about me that I think a boys’ choir and a science fair are the activities of a socialite? Geez…my social standards have dwindled.)

A Life Lesson in Preparedness

By: Shannon Ralph

 

Generally speaking, I am not a big fan of the Boy Scouts of America due to their stance on gay people. I am, however, a firm believer in their motto. “Be prepared.” Like generations of Boy Scouts before me, I pride myself on being prepared for any situation life decides to throw my way. I consider myself a go-with-the-flow kind of girl. Always ready. Always up for an adventure. Always prepared.

That being said, I found myself unprepared in the worst of ways yesterday. I did something that I honestly cannot remember ever doing in my adult life. Imagine my surprise when, out of the blue, my own body turned on me and caught me completely off guard. Imagine the horror I felt standing in front of that shiny silver box hanging on the wall in the women’s restroom buying a….gasp….sanitary napkin from a glorified vending machine.

Yes, you read that right. My own body betrayed me and decided to throw me for a loop a full four days before I expected the arrival of my special friend. I was caught completely and totally off guard with no tampon in my bag. No pad. No Depends undergarment. Nothing that could assist me with the unexpected intruder. Nor did I have a quarter. That’s right. No sanitary supplies and no quarter with which to purchase one. I rummaged through my bag. I rummaged through my desk drawers. I even checked the wee corners of the underside of my desk where change has been known to roll and rest. Nothing. A drawer full of nickels and dimes, but not a quarter in sight. I ended up having to ask a coworker to trade me a quarter for two dimes and a nickel. “Having trouble with the vending machine?” “Ummm….yea. Sure.”

I grabbed the quarter from her and stealthily made my way to the restroom with the shiny coin safely ensconced in the palm of my hand. I did a quick scan of the bathroom. Though there were women occupying the stalls, no one was loitering around the box on the wall. Now was my chance to do this quickly and discreetly. I stood in front of the machine. There were three options. Sanitary Napkin. Shield. Tampon. I was intrigued by the word “shield.” I envisioned Captain American himself swooping in to save the day, shield in hand. Or perhaps this shield was more akin to the Roman gladiators of old. Perhaps if I chose to purchase a shield, Russell Crowe would bust into the bathroom, muscles bulging and oily, and save me from my untimely visitor. After careful deliberation, I decided against the shield. Russell Crow really isn’t my type, anyway.

I briefly considered the tampon, but being unsure of exactly what would emerge from the shiny box, I decided against it. I am a bit of a tampon connoisseur. A bit of a tampon snob, if you will. Let’s just say I am picky about width, breadth, and depth. So I decided against purchasing the unknown brand of tampon with my one and only quarter. It was a gamble I was not willing to take.

I placed my quarter into the slot marked “Sanitary Napkin” and turned the knob. Out popped a box. A large box. As a matter of fact, the box was large enough that I could not conceal it in both hands. And it was not some innocuous, nondescript shade of beige, as one would expect and hope for. No. It was purple. It was screaming purple. Loud, raging, Minnesota Vikings purple. There would be no missing or misplacing that box.

I quickly sprinted to the stalls to dispose of the flashy box. To my horror, all three stalls were occupied. Seriously?! I stood outside the stalls, forming a line of one. Willing the occupants to hurry the hell up. Pleading with them via the same mommy mind meld I use on my children to flush the toilet and get their asses out of the bathroom to allow me some privacy. As with my children, my powers of mental persuasion were pretty much impotent.

Eventually, after sweating it out for longer than I would think any adult female needs to occupy a bathroom stall, one of the stalls opened up. I practically pushed the smiling woman out of the way in my charge toward the toilet. Safely hidden behind a stall wall, I finally allowed myself to look at the box that I just purchased. The brand of sanitary napkin was one I had never heard of. It was large. Long. Quite reminiscent of the preemie diapers my twins wore when they were little. I was a bit leery about putting “Bob’s Pad” near my nether regions. I did, however, voice a quick sigh of relief at my decision not to purchase “Bob’s Tampon.” That would have probably put me over the edge. I placed the preemie diaper into its correct place and quickly left the restroom. I spent the remainder of the day trying to resist the urge to constantly readjust the diaper I was wearing by tugging on my underwear in a most UN-lady-like fashion.

Moral of the story: Be prepared. Like generations of Boy Scouts before you, carry a tampon in your bag. Wait…no. That’s not right. Oh well…something like that.

Conflicted

By: Shannon Ralph

My daughter misses me. No, I haven’t gone anywhere. As a matter of fact, I sleep in the same room with Sophie most nights when she creeps upstairs to snuggle up in my bedroom chair. Regardless, she misses me.

I can tell she misses me when she begs me for “one more” hug and kiss at bedtime. I can tell that she misses me when she declares that she doesn’t want to see the new Farm Babies at the zoo without me. I can tell she misses me when she asks me longingly when we will bake together again. I can tell she misses me when she looks up at me with her big blue eyes and begs me to “cuddle-bug” with her.

I am still here. Only, I am not. At least, not like I used to be. For the first time since my daughter was born, I am working a full-time job. Only, it’s not just a job. It’s a ten-hours-a-day, putting-out-fires-at-5:00-on-a-Friday, checking-email-on-the-weekends, rushing-home-just-in-time-for-nothing-more-than-baths-homework-bedtime, mentally-consuming kind of job. It’s the kind of job that instantly makes the other parent the “fun mom.” The kind of job that instantly makes the other parent the “school mom.” And the “birthday party mom.” And the “library mom.” And the…well, the “mom” mom. I am the working mom. I am the missing-out mom. I am the absent mom. I am the half-ass mom. At least that is what I feel like when my daughter walks up and closes my laptop as I am working at home. I am the checked-out mom.

I know my sons miss having me around. I know they love me and cherish the time that we spend together. My daughter, however, is different. She aches for time with me. I can feel it. She doesn’t understand why mommy no longer has the time to bake cakes and paint toenails and play dress-up. She misses being a girly girl with her mommy. And I miss her. I desperately long to be with her.

So why am I working? Simply put, I like my job. I like getting out of the house. I like going somewhere where I feel intelligent. And validated. Where my opinion is sought and valued. I enjoy talking to adults. I enjoy utilizing my vocabulary. I like conference calls and PowerPoint presentations and working lunches. I enjoy wearing clothes that are not stained with juice and caked with snot.  I relish solving problems more complex than fruit snacks versus goldfish crackers. I enjoy my job.

So what does that make me? What does it say about me that I made the conscious choice to spend less time with my children? To spend precious hours on this Earth away from the tiny creatures I love more than anything. To look my daughter in the eye and say, “Mommy will paint your toenails tomorrow,” knowing full well that tomorrow will be no different than today. What kind of mother does that make me?

An agonizingly conflicted mother.

Hard Work

By: Shannon Ralph

Lesbian relationships are hard work. You wouldn’t think so, right? To the uneducated eye, two women together may seem like the perfect relationship. Women get one another. Women sympathize with one another. Women need nurturing and women are nurturing. So they’re a perfect combination, right? Two women can shop together. Be the best of friends. Discuss books and art and literature. Two women can share clothes. Share feelings. Share secrets. Share thoughts and dreams. It’s like a sixth grade slumber party that never ends. Right?

Wrong.

Lesbian relationships are hard work. Painfully hard work. Ruanita hates to shop. I have about 25 pounds on her, so we can’t share clothes. We do share a sock drawer, which just manages to piss me off because she busts a hole in the toe of every pair of socks she puts on. I don’t know if she has talons in the place of toenails or what the issue is. She doesn’t read books unless forced to do so. After 14 years together, we have no more secrets to share. Our only dream at this point is a full night’s sleep uninterrupted by little urchins climbing into our bed. We do, however, discuss feelings. We discuss feelings ad nauseum.

In the last month or so, we have discussed every sort of feeling imaginable. “Are you okay?” is a question that is thrown around my house practically every ten minutes like clockwork. Yes, we are attuned to one another’s emotional state, but I don’t consider that necessarily a good thing.  Are you okay? What are you thinking? How do you feel? Are you mad at me? Why are you in a mood? What is your problem? Are you going to cry? Are you okay? Did something happen? Are you sad? These conversations are enough to drive a person insane. Utterly mad. Everything is negotiated. Every decision is “processed” to death. Every action and reaction is equitable. Everything is balanced and completely egalitarian. Every feeling is analyzed and every emotion scrutinized. It’s enough to put someone over the edge.

Don’t get me wrong. I am as guilty of being too enmeshed as Ruanita is. I am constantly asking her if she is okay. I pounce at the slightest inkling of unhappiness or discord. We are so attuned to one another’s emotional states that it becomes burdensome. You should see the fights we have. Do we fight like a normal couple —screaming, yelling, and then making up? No, of course not. We would not want to say anything that would hurt the other person’s feelings. So our fights become this hostile silence that permeates every inch of our house. The rooms are filled with this crackling electricity that never quite fully surfaces. I’m sure she’d like to punch me and relieve some of that tension. I am sure I would feel better if I screamed “Bitch!” at the top of my lungs. But neither of us does that because we would then immediately have to rush to the other person and ask that question I have come to despise. Are you okay? And then, even worse, I would have to utter the second most popular phrase in my household. I’m sorry.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to be married to a man. A big jock of a man who sits around watching football and scratching himself all day. A man who doesn’t give a rip about my feelings. A man who refuses to discuss feelings at all. Or even better yet, a man who is so out of touch with his own feelings that he lives in happy, dopey oblivion. Wouldn’t that be easier? Then again, I would probably be expected to touch him. Blech.

As it stands, I am a lesbian. A lesbian who is very much in love with my partner. I am quite certain I will love her until the day I die —which may very well be at her hands following a fit of rage induced by the 10,345th time I ask her, “Are you okay?”

Growing Up and Growing Old

By: Shannon Ralph

Things are changing. And I do not like it. My uncle Chris —my mother’s brother— was recently diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. It is not good.

I am afraid for my uncle. I love him dearly and do not want him to feel pain or know fear. I am afraid for his wife who I adore. I can’t imagine what I would do if it were my partner, Ruanita, who was sick. I am afraid for his two children. They are grown, but even college kids need their daddy. I am afraid for my mother and my ten other aunts and uncles who have been untouched my loss amongst them. I am afraid of living in a world where people are struck down willy-nilly in the prime of their lives. Mostly —and most selfishly— I am afraid for myself.

My dad died when I was eleven years old, so I am no stranger to the fact that people die. It happens. People get sick and they die. Every day. Every minute. Regardless, I have always thought of my mom and her eleven siblings as invincible. Somehow untouchable. Frozen forever in my mind as they were when I was a child. Brazen twenty-somethings splashing around in the water at Miller’s Lake. Playing cards and drinking beer. Tossing a football around at Legion Park. Idiots laughing at all of the family’s inside jokes. Forever young. Forever healthy.

Today, that facade is being lifted. Reality is setting in. My aunts and uncles are not the twenty-somethings I remember from my youth. They have become older and wiser and, in some instances, frailer. My heroes are aging. My protectors and biggest fans are not as strong as I once knew them to be. And it scares me. What does it mean for me? For my generation? For my brother and sisters? For my cousins? I am almost forty years old and have children of my own, but I don’t know that I have truly felt like a “grown-up” until this day.  Adulthood is upon me.

I must say that I am not a fan.

My Father’s Daughter

By: Shannon Ralph

When my mother found out my uncle had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, she took to her bed in tears for an entire day. I have not shed a single tear despite adoring my uncle. I told my mother this past weekend that I was trying not to think about my uncle because it makes me sick to my stomach. So I try not to think about it. I try not to dwell on the savagery of a cancer that lurks in the depths of a person I truly adore. My mother responded by saying that is how I have always been. I shove things down. Ignore them. I got the feeling she was implying that was an unhealthy reaction. I’ve been thinking about that brief conversation ever since.

Perhaps it is true. Perhaps I am an emotional black hole. I admit to being rather stoic. No one would ever accuse me of being prone to histrionics. I am Even Steven. Calm, cool, and collected. When my grandmother died a few years back, my aunt wailed at her funeral. Literally wailed. Like you see veil-adorned women doing in footage from the war-torn Middle East. I remember staring at her in absolute awe. What is it like to be able to express emotion in that way? What is it like to carry your feelings so close to the surface? Ready to erupt at any moment. I am afraid I do not know. I have never wailed in my life. I can’t even picture myself wailing in my wildest imagination.

I think I am more like my father than I am like my mother. He was a quiet man. A stoic man. A good-hearted, funny, happy man. But an unflappable man. I remember my parents’ occasional fights when I was a child. I don’t think you could really call them “fights,” as they were really quite one-sided rants. My mother would scream and wail and rave and stew. My father would sit quietly and listen. Or worse yet, he would chuckle at her hysteria, which never failed to put her over the edge. He did not fight back. He did not get angry. He did not give in to emotion. Whereas my mother functions in a state of constant emotional upheaval, my father rarely showed emotion at all. I am afraid I inherited a bit of that from him.

It is not that I do not feel emotion. I do. It is just that strong emotion is disturbing to me for some reason. It upsets the balance. I don’t like the feeling of being unbalanced and upset. I don’t like it, so I avoid it. My mother tries to get me to read sappy, emotionally wrenching books. She adores stories full of heartache and tragedy and doom. She doesn’t understand why I don’t care for Jodi Picoult. She can’t fathom that I stopped reading Sarah’s Key as soon as I realized the little boy was locked in a cabinet. Why would I willingly -and unnecessarily- inflict that kind of sadness upon myself? Why would anyone? These stories of tragedy stick with me. They haunt me. I can’t close a book or switch off a movie and leave the story behind. So why torture myself unnecessarily?

There are times when I wish I were more like my mom. More like my wailing aunt. More welcoming of all the intense emotions inherent in the human experience. But that is simply not me. I love my family with my entire heart. I would do absolutely anything for my uncle and the thought of losing him is unbearable. But I am not going to take to my bed in grief. I am not going to wail. There is a very real chance that I will not cry a single tear. And I will feel like an emotional pariah because of that. But that does not mean that my love is any less real or my sadness any less true. I cope the way I cope. I don’t have it within my make-up to respond in any other way. I am my father’s daughter.

That’s not such a terrible thing to be, is it?

Pretty in Pink

By: Shannon Ralph

May I rant for a moment? As you may or may not know, my twins are in kindergarten. Kindergarten, as a general rule, is a fun place to be. One of the fun things they are doing this year is having two weeks of “color days.” Each day is assigned a color and the kids spend that day talking about that color, reading books about that color, exploring things that are that color, etc., etc. You get the point. Of course, in addition to color activities, the kids are asked to wear that color to school on the assigned day. We’ve done red and green and blue and purple and orange. We did black and white. All have gone well…until this week. Well, that’s not entirely true.

Nicholas missed purple day. When I went to set out his clothes the night before purple day I realized, to my great chagrin, that he did not own anything purple. I looked through all of his drawers and his closet. I looked through his summer clothes from August that were boxed up and put away. I looked through Lucas’s old clothes that might be big, but acceptable, on Nicholas. Nothing. I did not find a single article of clothing that contained any hint of purple at all. Since it was already bedtime the night before purple day, we decided that Nicholas simply would not participate in the clothing portion of purple day. He was not at all affected by this news. When I sadly told him of his fate, he responded with a smile and a quick, “OK.” I, however, was devastated. My darling little boy was missing out on purple day. What kind of mother was I? We survived. However, I was not happy.

This week, we ran headfirst into pink day. PINK day. I am a firm believer that little boys can wear pink. I am a firm believer that grown men can, and should, wear pink. Nicholas even received a pink vacuum cleaner from Santa one year —his very favorite present that Christmas. So imagine my disgust when I —a self-avowed progressive, modern mama—discovered that my son did not own a single pink article of clothing. We had survived purple day, but it was a hellish experience. Granted, it was only hellish for me, but I certainly had no intention of reliving the horror. So I did what any good mother would do.

I went to Target.

As anyone who reads this blog knows, Target is my Nirvana. My Garden of Eden. My Happy Place. Generally speaking, I love Target with a devotion that is both weird and probably unhealthy. But this week, the love of my life disappointed me. I looked through every article of clothing in the toddler boys’ section. I looked through every article of clothing in the big boys’ section. I even looked through every article of clothing in the men’s section (which is really ridiculous considering that Nicholas weighs 30 pounds soaking wet). I did not find a single piece of clothing —not one shirt, pair of pants, hat, scarf, or sock— that included any shade of pink anywhere on it. In my defense, I was not even being a purist. I was not dead-set on carnation pink. I would have settled for rose. Or salmon. Or mauve. Or fuscia. Hell, I would have been happy with light red. But I found nothing. Nothing even remotely pink.

I briefly tried looking in the little girls’ section of the store for a simple t-shirt in a hue of pink that could be considered even moderately masculine. Unfortunately, that was a dead end. Everything in the little girls’ section was adorned with sequins and hearts and roses and kittens and ruffles. There were no simple t-shirts. There was nothing a self-respecting five-year-old boy (or a 39-year-old lesbian, for that matter) would ever consider wearing.

So I went home angry. Irritated that Target —my Target— would not sell pink clothes for little boys. Why is pink such a taboo color for boys? Is it because boys who wear pink are gay? Queer? Homos? It amazes me that a little boy who is a mere five years old —a baby, for God’s sake— cannot like the color pink without raising eyebrows. Cannot wear pink without incurring unwanted attention. Nicholas used to love pink. He loved his pink vacuum cleaner with all of his tiny little heart. He wore a pink polo shirt at his first birthday party. He was my little pink prince. Then something changed. His brother started school. His brother learned that pink is a “girly” color. He told Nicholas that real boys don’t like pink. “Real” boys? As opposed to fake boys? Nicholas internalized this lesson. These days, he tells me that he doesn’t like pink. He doesn’t want to drink out of a pink cup. He doesn’t want to eat out of a pink bowl. He doesn’t want to wear pink clothes.

And apparently, he has nothing to worry about because his mama can’t buy him pink clothes anyway.

Grrrrrr.

Letting it All Hang Out

By: Shannon Ralph

I am not feeling like my usual cheerful self today. Perhaps it is PMS. Or sleep deprivation brought on by my dear children’s continued refusal to sleep in their own beds. Or perhaps it is a result of my going back to work full-time and seeing my children less than ever. Maybe it has something to do with the constant barrage of television coverage and never-ending sound bites from the Republican presidential candidates getting under my skin and irritating me to no end. Or maybe it is merely the byproduct of being a thirty-nine-year-old woman standing on the precipice of a new, and rather distasteful, decade. Whatever the reason, I find myself feeling a bit pissy today. Rather than keeping all of that irritation locked inside where it can bubble and fester and cause me to break out in zits and lose my appetite (which, by the way, would not be a complete tragedy), I have decided to share my frustration with you, the loyal readers of The Next Family. Here are the issues that have pushed me to the edge of sanity this week alone:

My uncle Chris —my mom’s brother— was just diagnosed with cancer. I always thought all twelve of the Hardesty siblings were invincible. I am realizing now that might not be true, and it pisses me off.

My dog needs a second surgery on her eye. I knew there was a chance the first surgery wouldn’t take, but it still pisses me off.

My eldest son is brilliant…but different. Schools are not equipped to handle smart kids who think differently. My partner, Ruanita, was the same way as a child and grew up hating school and thinking she was not as smart as everyone else. That just pisses me off.

When it gets really cold outside, the driver-side door on my minivan freezes. It will open, but will not close again. That is, until I trudge back into the house, get a pitcher of warm water, trudge back outside again, and pour the water on the door. Then, and only then, will the door latch shut. On a crisp, below-zero Minnesota morning —when I should expect it, but still manage to be taken completely off guard— that van really pisses me off.

My cell phone will not display the correct scores on Words with Friends. No matter how many times I uninstall and reinstall the app, it still lists wildly inaccurate scores on every game. I am competitive to the point of obnoxiousness and have had to fight the urge on numerous occasions to hurl my brand new phone out the window. That just pisses me off.

I want to lose weight before our beach trip this summer. No matter how much I want it, however, food sings to me. Mexican, Chinese, American, Indian, Italian…I am not prejudiced against any nationality. I will eat it all. And I do. And that pisses me off.

This Minnesota winter is driving me mad. Don’t get me wrong. I am not complaining about the balmy 40 degree days. I am not complaining about the lack of six-foot snow drifts. I am not complaining about the shortage of ice that I have managed to bust my ass on every single year since moving to the frigid northland. I am actually trying to enjoy the warmer weather. But, having come to be a true Minnesotan after fourteen years here, I do not trust it. I do not believe that winter simply will not come. I do not trust that Mother Nature will be so generous. I am waiting for the other shoe to fall. I am waiting for the hell that is a Minnesota winter to materialize. That waiting and wondering and dreading drives me mad. And it pisses me off.

The underwire in my favorite blue bra broke yesterday. I felt it pop while sitting at my desk at work. I spent the afternoon being poked and prodded by an errant wire in regions that are better left un-poked and un-prodded. Now I have to go bra shopping. Not a pleasant task for a woman who, five years after a twin pregnany, still has the largest boobs this side of Dollywood. Bra shopping just pisses me off.

My children are addicted to screens —computer screens, television screens, video game screens. And worse yet, I think it is my fault. That really pisses me off.

Last night, I went to bed feeling perfectly fine and woke up this morning feeling like I had sprained my ankle. I could barely walk.  Who injures themselves in the dead of night in the safe confines of their memory foam covered bed?? I’ll tell you who. Old people. Old people with brittle bones and worn joints. Grrrr…that pisses me off.

I have more gray hair than Ruanita despite her being eight and a half years older than me. That pisses me off.

The Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory has 1109 calories per slice. That is so wrong for something that tastes so right. And it pisses me off.

Third grade homework, as a general rule, pisses me off.

After giving birth to twins, I wet myself when I cough. Or sneeze. Or laugh too heartily. Considering I am not even forty years old yet, that really pisses me off.

Parents who do not teach their children even the most basic concepts of respect and good manners really piss me off.

Pompous asses touting the merits of “traditional marriage” while cheating on their spouses and divorcing left and right really piss me off. Yes…I am talking to you, Newt.

People who give up and shut down when the going gets tough piss me off.

Money pisses me off. When you don’t have it, it sucks. When you do have it and everyone else wants it, it sucks. When you fight with your spouse about it, it sucks. When you try to save it, but manage to fritter it away anyway, it sucks. When you spend it on yourself and then feel guilty for weeks, it sucks. In general, money is a necessary evil that just pisses me off.

My Uncle Joey, who has been living with AIDS since I was a senior in high school (many, many years ago) isn’t doing so great. After decades of watching friends and loved ones die, he is still hanging on. Everything he has seen and everything he has been forced to endure really pisses me off.

I can’t button the third button of my winter coat without it gaping unattractively. That pisses me off.

I do not like the people who go to Target on Sunday afternoon. People who are there at the crack of dawn like me are serious shoppers. We adhere to proper shopping etiquette. We know what we want. We smile politely at one another as we push our carts at a reasonable pace around the store sipping our Starbucks lattes. Target is an oasis in an otherwise crazy world at 8:00 on a Sunday morning. In many ways, it is my “church.” My fellow early bird shoppers are my congregation. We worship the almighty red while bathed in mutual respect and peace. Afternoons, however, are a different story.  Sunday afternoon shoppers are a different breed altogether. They bring their children along, dressed in their Sunday best. They refuse to correct their children when they run through the store screaming like crack addicts desperate for a hit. They refuse to move their children when they stand absentmindedly in front of your cart blocking your way. As a matter of fact they, themselves, will stand in an aisle with their cart parked sideways blocking all traffic as they discuss the merits of chili beans versus kidney beans. They’re freaking beans, for God’s sake! Can they not sense that I am about to go all ninja on them in the middle of the Target aisle? They do not understand —or perhaps they simply do not care about— the basic social graces of shopping. Sunday afternoon shoppers really piss me off.

On a related note, I also hate the check-out crowders. You know the people. The ones who are so very anxious to get through the check-out line that they will not wait their turn. As you step away for a brief moment to put your bags in your cart, they assume their position in front of the credit card machine. Refusing to budge. Even as you tap into your inner contortionist to try to sign your name on the little credit card machine without getting intimate with a total stranger, they do not move. Back the hell up, dude! Check-out line space invaders piss me off.

I hate having to parallel park my minivan in front of my own house. I believe the entire neighborhood should give my minivan wide berth. Anything less completely pisses me off.

My neighbors across the street have moved. I really liked my neighbors. Sure, the dad had a habit of ambushing me with play dates (showing up at my door out of the blue with kids in tow asking if they can come over and play while he waxes his deck or paints his living room or sits on his ass and eats nachos and watches the game…I don’t know). But I still liked both him and his wife a lot. They are just really nice people. I hadn’t seen them in a while because it is winter and the kids aren’t outside playing as much. Suddenly, last week, there was a moving van in front of their house and they announced that they had bought a house in the suburbs and were moving. Just like that. That day. They were just gone. And we are left to wonder what kind of people are going to buy the tiny yellow house with the peeling paint across the street. I miss them already. And that pisses me off.

Looking in the mirror this morning, I noticed that my face is looking more and more like that of a forty-year-old. I am beginning to regret my youthful decision to refuse to wear make-up. To never learn to apply make-up properly. To spend my life au naturale. The finer art of make-up is something I may just have to learn late in life. And that pisses me off.

Wow. That was quite a tantrum. Strangely, I feel better. Perhaps letting it all out occasionally is the way to go. Maybe sharing my frustrations and irritations is healthy. Allowing myself to voice all of the crazy thoughts that run through my head on a daily basis is a good thing, right? Then again, there is something to be said for maintaining a facade of sanity.

I suppose that ship has already sailed, huh?

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