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Guest Post: Ch-ch-ch-change

7 Feb

Today’s post comes from a reader and a friend. Jaime and I played roller derby together and from her I learned that hard work, dedication and patience can pay off. I also learned that you can be a seriously hot mama and rock the world just by being yourself. She’s got some really great things to say in this post about being real with yourself, defining and living your best life, and facing challenges head on! I heart her face and hope you all enjoy her piece. -Sport

A year or so ago, a friend of mine started a blog about being 30 and how she was not happy turning the big 3-0. I, an old pro of 33 (at the time), posted a reply stating how wonderful it was. You have money! You are finally comfortable in your own skin! You know what you want to be when you grow up and you get to do it every day!

The truth is – I lied.

Every statement posted was a saccharine-infested fib.

Ninjabread men no like saccharine-infested fibs

For me anyway. Each birthday of my 30s has brought along with it a huge upheaval, both good and bad, of everything I’ve ever known:

• A week before my 30th I started a new job in an industry I thought I would enjoy and could grow in. (Yeah! A grown up job! Finally!)

• On a perfect Colorado fall day, a month after turning 30, I married a wonderful man who thinks I’m amazing (thought that would never happen!).

• For my 31st birthday I had settled into the first trimester of a very welcome pregnancy.

• I celebrated my 32nd birthday with a beautiful 4-month-old baby girl, a “mild” case of post-partum depression (it felt like a horrible case to me, but hey, I’m not a medical professional), and a body that was in constant pain due to hip and lower spine displacement issues. I hated being in my skin. Hated it.

• For my 33rd birthday my husband was two months into his first year of medical school and, unexpectedly, without a job. But I finally had relief from the pain, without drugs, and that was a huge plus.

• Last year, on my 34th birthday, I was down to working only 24 hours a week, which doesn’t leave much room for saving, and was once again pregnant. The cherry on top was the horrible realization that what I was doing for a living was not really what I wanted to do after all.

This year, the year I turn 35, will be the start of a long-term, change of living for our family. In a few short months I will leave my job to be a stay-at-home mom. It was after much debate, much indigestion, and very little sleep that the decision was made.

But I am still concerned about the future.

The realization that, in a few short months, there will be absolutely no income into our household is a bit staggering. How the hell will we provide basic needs for four people with no income?

I’ve always lived a very middle class life – never needed for anything, but never had to utter the ‘B’ word, much less live by it. If we wanted a new coat or book or whatever, we went to the store and got it. No one said “Not this week/month, it’s not part of the budget.” I, we, lived a good life.

We’ve already started the process of re-learning what it means to live your best life, and I admit, it’s been hard on me. I don’t how to live frugally or seriously abide by a budget. While some decisions will be easy (I will gladly eat ramen noodles so my daughter can have fresh strawberries and deli ham, the cable is long gone, and we’re all using cheap shampoo) some will be much harder – what can I sell for grocery/electric/water money? What bill can wait to be paid?

My grandmother always said that god only gives you what he knows you have the strength to handle – I’m going to trust her on that one. So one step at a time is how it’s going to be for now. No point in living life curled up in a ball on the closet floor crying and shoving Oreos into your face.

Besides, I’m always up for a good challenge. Keeps life interesting.

The Big Reveal!

25 Dec

Merry Christmas, scoundrels.  I won’t even beat around the bush here. You’re only visiting the blog today to get the scoop on what kind of junk Smokey is packing so without further adieu…

#peepee!

For all you not  as familiar with our effed up way of saying things: SMOKEY IS A BOY!!!

BOY!  BOY! BOY!

Yay!

Merry Christmas, scoundrels! Hope your day is as full of excitement and joy!

 

Weekly Rant: Really mom?

17 Dec

I’m coming to you from the back of my closet, knees tucked to chest, and a bottle of whiskey in hand. She’s invaded, and the fate of my world is looking bleak. Dun, dun, dunnn…

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I’m grown now. I thought it would be clever and quite effective to tell my mom just how ridiculous she is. Come on. Who likens boneless chicken breast you get from the grocery store to a chicken breast sandwich at McDonald’s? And when asked why she wouldn’t eat it, replies with ‘it doesn’t have a bone in it.’ :/

Or, how about this. We’ve eaten fried, fried, and did I mention fried(?) for 6 days now. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that she’s cooking for me, but dayum!

Speaking of food, there has been the case of the gourmet hot dog, with mustard, ketchup, and onion only, that was the nastiest thing she’d ever had. (For those living in Denver, I got dogs from Steve’s Snappin’ Dogs. Steevvveee’s. You can’t go wrong with Steve’s.) O_o

If you’ve ever visited my place when the boiler is on, you know it’s hotter than two bats in a wool sock fucking. But, to my mom, it’s 2 below–even when the temp gauge says it’s 70 degrees in December! Yet, I have to suffer and bear the radiant heat being on. Seriously, my ball sweat is sweating. :|

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You see, what you’ve been reading, I opened the door for these situations to happen. I invited my mom to visit me. In my 1-bedroom. During December. For 29 days. What? I was trying to be a loving son. One that’s attentive and caring and the best. My mom has heart issues and other medical complications I’m trying to be sensitive to here. She’ll be 58 tomorrow, and I want to see her live long and prosper. She’s here because I like to see her experience more than rural Georgia has to offer. <3

As a result of trying to reconcile the radness of having her around,  guilt for my indignance, sadness about her health, and frustration over her approach to her health needs,  I’ve since found out I’m actually the son that’s suicidal and impatient and ungrateful. Ultimately, the <=8

Oh, it’s 8am and I’ve heard her recite Denver’s temperature timeline for the day to 3 different people on the phone already. *smh*

Pray for me. We still have 23 days left. :P

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