The worst mistake of them all

Most of you visiting my blog probably think I am amazing and can do no wrong.

I suppose I am. But occasionally I make mistakes. Some come from love and overenthusiasm. Like watering my cacti to their early grave. Some mistakes happen because I don’t think before I speak. Like telling my friend the other day while waiting for Yoga class to begin that I cannot believe there are people out there who pay a hundred bucks for yoga pants from a certain famous brand. Only to realize the other 7 ladies were wearing them. And then I was the only one who lost balance during a posture, proving that wearing lemon pants helps being a better tree.

There are times though that I am asked to do something and I know it is a bad idea. I struggle with it. Toss and turn at night and eat a pint of ice cream to help me clear my mind. But ultimately my conscience tells me to just do it. No, I am not talking about bake sale, that I would say no to easily. I am talking about Facebook.

You see I have a younger cousin. My family is near extinct and a few cousins back home is all I have. We are close enough to know each other’s birthdays without Facebook reminders and joke about the days gone by at family reunions, but we are not like brothers and sisters. Now my youngest cousin is a teen. What can I say, my aunt was hit by a baby bug as her nest emptied. He is a lovely, bright young boy and the last time I saw him he was visiting us for a few weeks in the summer and he was everything I hopped my son to be when he is 10.

Then a year later he send me a request to be my friend on Facebook. I will not preach about how you are suppose to be 16 and over to join social media and all that. But I did feel awkward about having such a young kid read my feed. The last thing I wanted was to worry about my statements being politically correct and censor my complaints to be G rated ( cause you just cannot talk about parking in Walmart and be suitable for all audiences, can you?) .

But blood is thicker then water and who am I to cut my family ties. So I clicked confirmed. And in the past few years I have learned to live with the fact I am related to a Justin Bieber lookalike who has thousand of friends, changes relationship statues daily and thinks that spelling is a suggestion not a rule.

Am I bitter that his requests to ‘like this status and I will tell you what color are my socks’ dominate my feed? Sure. Am I ashamed that I know more trivia about him then his parents? YES!

But you know what is the worst thing ever? His post the other day used a word that would be bleeped out in a R rated movie! I had to wash out my eyeballs with bleach and I have been a nervous reck ever since, upping my ice cream intake to two pints!

So I am hear to tell you: whatever you do, please do not accept friend requests from 16 and under’s. Because it seems that perfectly normal kids, straight A students wearing matching socks, that live among us turn into some bizarre alter ego young adults in the parallel universe called Facebook. And it ain’t pretty!

Source: treta.com.br via Stasha on Pinterest

My old house

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away I had a clean house.

I remember returning from a lovely walk by the mill with my friend Pauline, Little J and our dogs on a sunny day. As I put my son for his midday nap, I would start my routine. Vacuuming the hideous blue carpets, tidying up toys, dusting the fireplace mantle. I would look out the window in the study as I straightened up the paperwork to spy my dog sleeping in the back yard. I remember the big water calc stain in the shower floor that never went away. The smell of white vinegar as I cleaned it. The crisp air of the english country side on an early spring afternoon coming through the wide open windows, filling up the rooms. I would stop to look at my neighbor across the road, hiding behind the curtain so she does not notice me as she struggles with her four year old son. Thinking I would never allow my boy to act that way. Never.

Then I would check on him, sleeping in his crib, dreaming peacefully. I knew there was at least an hour left before he was ready to wake up. I would go downstairs, make my self a cup of tea and snuggle up in my reading chair under a cozy blanket. Flipping through my favorite catalogues, wishing for new wellies and a tweet jacket. Big M would knock on the french windows and I let him in. He slept under my feet and I we were there. On a sunny spring day in a small English town.

I thought of all this as I cleaned the house today. The silly song of the dryer indicating the cycle was finished brought me back. The guilt washed over me as I realized it has been an hour since I asked my husband to take our boy and dog to the beach so I can tidy up. I was no where near done and I planned to sit down and read some blogs I have been neglecting before they return. I thought about texting him to grab me a cup of coffee from drive thru to buy myself a few extra minutes and get my daily treat too. I rushed to wash the floors quick as I reasoned against the coffee.

Sometimes I really miss who I used to be.

I got mad

I am cheesed off.

I mean big time. Blue, smelling like old man’s feet in synthetic sneakers kinda cheese. So cheesed off I might be turning lactose intolerant.

Little J is to blame. Or maybe my parenting. Perhaps my daily horoscope or more then likely some annoying recessed gene (on husband’s side of the family off course).

So I blew my top and pushed my kid down the time machine. Into dark ages. There is no TV, games, toys or butter on his bread. Seriously. I made him pack up all his things in the room. I left his bed, but only because it really is too heavy for me to move about. Ok, I left the pillows and his sharks, mostly so I have a few other things to ex if he doesn’t change his ways.

I am sure there is my side of the story, his side and then the truth. But I am the mommy so whatever. The kid went too far. We get along swimmingly 99.1 percent of the time. Unless I am talking to another human being. Which we all know is rare. I have trained my husband to speak with no words and I never engage with other adults. But sometimes, just sometimes a stranger will feel compelled to talk to me. It is mostly a trivia question about my fabulous dog or to tell me how much I owe at the farmers market. I have on occasion been known to spend a few minutes talking to my neighbors too.

And as soon as I do, my son turns into a monster. He either interrupts or does something he knows he is not suppose to. Needless to say I don’t like it. And so the circle begins. Now that I have been playing this game for over two years, I have had enough. I would like to finish my thoughts for once when I speak to my husband. Who knows, one day I might come up with something very clever to say and my Little J will nip it in the bud.

I would like to be able to hold a decent conversation with people I meet. Maybe even look into their eyes! I know I have said 11713 times to 11712 strangers already that my dog weights 165 pounds ( one lady in our neighborhood has dementia so she gets excited about seeing my dog for the first time every Tuesday and Thursday) But it is what it is. I am the mommy. So suck it up kiddo.

Off course I need not google it to determine it is an attention seeking and control thing. But as much as I am trying to sign it off to age, only child syndrome or just plain stupidity I just really cannot take it anymore.

If you knew how many times I have calmly explained to my son about treating people the way you want to be treated, about manners and about how terrible he would feel if I embarrassed him in front of his friends like that! If you knew how much it hurts my feelings that I have an argument with him every single day about doing what he is told ( which honestly is not like I ask him to split an atom or even worse: vacuum the house)…If you only knew how badly I lost my mind this afternoon when I decided enough was enough. I went blank, just like TV screen after the storm. Blink blink. I turned around in the middle of the hike, drove home, gave him some boxes to pack up his stuff and ignored him until daddy came home.

Then during dinner time I did not let Little J chose his bread slice. It was daddy’s turn first, then mine and then his. We must have taken the number four one and the kid cried. Big crocodile tears over the incredible disappointment that is his life. And he cried and cried and then cried some more. To top it all off he told me he doesn’t love me anymore.

But strangely enough, he survived. And so did I. Welcome to your new life my son. The world revolves around the sun from now on. I know…shocking.