A woman should be lucky to have so many men.

Happy Father's Day to my readers who are Fathers or who play the part. I'm blessed with many men in my life, some biologically and some through marriage. Some just step in when they see me wielding a power tool or can see me imagining myself wielding a power tool.

My Father gave me life, loved me and continued to pick me up and hold me even when I probably was too big to carry. I was probably 7 when I just stopped asking because I could hear the strain in his spine as he'd loop his arms under mine. I try and remember daily how important that one memory is to me 25 years later as my own too big to carry child wants me to pick him up and hold him. Now, my Father is my taxi driver, shuttling me from one place to another when I'm to anxious to drive there myself. Even if it's just to the grocery store. I like to think that I'm keeping him out of jail and he should be thanking me. After all, some of those girls, DAD, are old enough to be your granddaughter. SIGH.

My Grandfather, though he refused to make the drive, called me minutes before my wedding to give me the same speech he'd given my Mother on her wedding day. Something along the lines of, "think of all that money you could have used towards a new car or a down payment on a home and instead all you're getting is sand in your butt and a piece of paper sealing the deal." He's given us a roof over our head these past 5 years and I hope we've given him that extra spark that went missing once my Grandmother passed. I know "his babies" mean everything to him. I don't know what I'd do without my Pappaw.

My Husband. THAT MAN I MARRIED. I will forever be grateful to him for all the silent support, standing next to me as I slowly lost my mind and held my hand as I struggled to come up out of that hole. For the beautiful, amazing children he gave me and all that he's taught them and strengthened in them. I couldn't be luckier to have married a man who makes such an amazing Daddy to his kids. I hope one day he can see all his children together at the same time, if not for a moment, many many moments in his life time.

Turn it up, THIS IS MY JAM!

I'm headed down the Atlanta highwayyy!

 

Her Bad Daughter.

She cried and asked me if I was happy seconds after I vowed myself to The Husband.
She held my leg as I pushed and transitioned from a Daughter to a Mother.
She forced tissues into my hands as I gasped for air and sobbed in the middle of the Emergency Room when I had no where else to turn for help.
She stops me in my tracks to tell me what a good Mother I am.
She has told me how proud she is of me and my forward movement.
She nodded her head and vehemently agreed that my motto for the year to "just say no" when I can't handle anything else on my plate was a strong and wise decision considering what I've repeatedly piled onto my "responsibility plate" has been too much.

I am overwhelmed.
I am exhausted.
I am at the end of my rope.
I am her bad daughter.

Once again, I am the child who is throwing everything she can get her hands on at her Mother just to make it stop.
Once again, I am the child who just wants validation and to be trusted with her decisions.
Once again, I am standing in the rain moving furniture wondering what the fuck and how did I get myself into this situation and hearing the voice in the back of my head telling me that this isn't my fault and to slink back into the shadows and hope it all just takes care of itself.
Once again, I am shielding the blow of her words after letting my guard down.
Once again, I am following her commands, but only because I really don't have any other choice without disappointing my children. I am very close to teaching them a lesson in love and what we will and won't do for acceptance.
Once again, I am her bad daughter.

I am lucky to even have a Mother. Even luckier to be married to a Man who gifted me with two totally different Mothers. I am lucky to have my Mother. I just don't like feeling like a masochist.

The joy of moving just keeps giving.

Between now and move day, I have a total of FIVE days off work. FIVE.

That's 120 hours... if you're counting.

I'm counting.

I'm also packing boxes and then realizing ONCE they're full that OMFG this is some heavy ass shit. What was I thinking? WHY DO ALL MY BELONGINGS WEIGH 50,000 POUNDS? I'm pretty sure this is where being a "packing master" has it's downsides. Yes, as a matter of fact I can pack all of our belongings in as few boxes as possible... unfortunately we're going to need a bunch of body builders to move our boxes 100 feet between point "A" and point "B."

I haven't even started on the playroom... shudder. I've only finished our bedroom and the decorative pieces between the bedroom and living room.

120 hours and counting.

Pillow Talk.

My Husband doesn't believe I need a service monkey.

Last night after turning off the lights and wrapping myself burrito style in my comforter, I started thinking about how relaxed I get when Lillie plays with my hair... kind of like a monkey would "groom" it's companions. So I broached the subject about how beneficial it would be to everyone in the home for me to have a "service monkey" to help with my anxiety. He sighed and the conversation went a little something like this:

Billy, "I'm not even going to get into the reasons you DON'T need a service monkey."
Me, "You don't love me."
Billy, "I love you, and that's WHY you don't need a service monkey."
Me, "You really must not have read up on all the benefits of having a service monkey around."
Billy, "It's not like there's a "servicemonkey.com, and anyways, we are NOT having a conversation about you, a monkey, and this family. Conversation over."
Me, "You just don't understand how this anxiety thing works. You know how I immediately relax when Lillie does my hair? He could "groom" me and we would be best of friends. HE WOULD GET ME."
Billy, "You probably don't even qualify for a service monkey. I'm going to sleep."

***5 minutes later***

Me, "What about a service alpaca? They're really fluffy and we could name one Tina like in Napolean Dynamite."
Billy, "That's not even original, and where would it sleep?"
Me, "In our bed, like a giant hairy pillow."
Billy, "WHAT? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?"
Me, "They make sweaters out of alpaca fur, it would bring in income AND comfort."
Billy, "There is no fucking ROOM for an alpaca in our bed, and I don't even let that CAT sleep in bed with us."
Me, "That's because you are selectively homophobic against my cat. I don't know if I can be married to a man who's homophobic only against cats."
Billy, "He doesn't even do anything to benefit the family. He doesn't kill anything and all he does is scream until you follow him to the bathroom so you can watch him pee like he's a damn exhibitionist. At least Moose (our dog) serves a purpose, he's a great guard dog."
Me, "It's like you don't even know me. Ollie is beneficial to my all around well being. And he LOVES YOU. He likes it when you chase him and beat him."
Billy, "Love taps. On the butt. I don't beat animals."
Me, "You know who would understand me and my anxieties? A service monkey."
Billy, "Conversation. OVER. Goodnight."
Me, "My monkey would get me. I would name him Mr. Wiggles."
Billy, "GO TO SLEEP."
Me, "If I suffered from seizures, I bet you would deny me a "seizure monkey" too."
Billy, "There's no such thing, and you're right, I would."
Me, "Just so you know, this is going in the blog so everyone can see how unfair you are."
Billy, "Sure."
Me, "Just you wait, buddy, just. you. WAIT."

And that's the logic behind why I can't have a service monkey. I think he really just doesn't understand how this whole "service animal" and anxiety. How is it possible we've been married 6 years and he still doesn't believe I need a monkey in my life?

Nuggets of Joy.

While at work, I can only imagine what happens while "Daddy Day Care" is in session. Most days I come home to what appears to be Lillie running the show and the boys are dressed in drag. I don't judge, but I think perhaps maybe there's an obvious confusion of roles. Perhaps she knows the woman of the house is in really the one in charge? If so, my job here is done.

The new place is coming along. Still needs a few things, you know, like appliances would be nice. But the floors are phenomenal and I am so stinking excited with all the decorating possibilities. That right there? Is the sunroom/playroom. It has a walk in storage closet (carpeted) off of it so big, I plan on putting one of the bookshelves in there along with some bins so the kids can PICK UP THEIR DAMN TOYS when they're done and put them in the closet. Hell, I don't care if there are days where they just open the door and kick them inside the closet. So long as I'm not stepping on the bulk lot of Legos I just picked up on Ebay for Lo's birthday... which is a month from tomorrow... he will be FIVE... hold me.

Click the picture for the link, but I think it's really awesome growing up hearing of the feud first hand from my McCoy family. My Grandmother's Mother grew up during that era. If you haven't clicked the link, you'll find my Great Grandmother (Cora Rae McCoy) listed under the children of Addison McCoy and Elizabeth Estep. And yes, Lillie Rae was named after her. Now that I've seen the 3 part series on the History Channel and read up some more on the McCoys, it seems only fitting that our scrappy little Honey Badger was named after a McCoy at all.

Yesterday we celebrated our 6th anniversary. I got him a dresser, but he's only allowed to use one drawer of it. Love, it is a maple dresser with a giant mirror attached. No, but really, six years... as of Memorial Day we had been together for 8 years. When this next Christmas rolls around, we will have been friends for ELEVEN years. I love that Man. (Obviously.)