Yeah. I’m still crazy.
It’s possible that I’m even crazier. Maybe.
I don’t know why I let all this stuff get to me. It’s not like it’s not the constant ingredients of my life, just mixed up in different doses depending on the current circumstances. Right now, Little B is the sugar [FIRST REPORT CARD: ALL A’S. YAYYYY!]; Big E is the horseradish [Seriously, kid? Seriously?], Little A is the spice [I like bumper cars!]; and Teen C is the binding agent that keeps it all together. I’m no cook, but I’m assuming that makes her an egg or something. She should take that as a compliment, but if she read this, she’d say that I’m mean. Let me explain:
Teen C’s working on a paper for school, an autobiography about her long 13 year old life. Chapter One was her family history, which was sort of a bust. I told her all the stories about my grandparents that I knew, and then I told her to email Zohrmom for more stories. Of course, she waited until the last minute and Zohrmom’s initial response was “All the stories I know are not appropriate for Junior High School.” Teen C put this as a direct quote in her paper. So now, her teacher probably thinks that my entire family is made up of prostitutes, drug dealers and heathens. Of course, my mother thought of some stuff she could have used a day or two later, but by that time, the visual had already been drawn for the teacher, the damage had been done. I doubt whatever story my mother remembered could’ve helped that. The next chapter which she is now working on is about her birth and her life as an infant. She’s got a list of specific (and by specific I mean SPE-CIFIC) questions. Last night, she started asking them of me.
“What did you do to prepare for my birth?”
“Um. I had a baby shower, I think. No, wait, I didn’t have a shower. But I set your room up and stuff.”
“What? What do you want me to say?”
“I meant EMOTIONALLY. How did you prepare for the birth of your first daughter EMOTIONALLY?”
“Most pregnant women are emotional, C, so I’m sure I was too.”
“Omigod. Okay. Whatever. What would my name have been had I been a boy?”
“Um. I don’t know. I’ll have to look in your baby book. Go to the next question.”
“Okay. How did you announce my birth?”
“Well, a birth announcement ran in the paper.”
“Really? You ran an article in the paper about me?!”
“Yeah. Totally.” (I neglected to mention that this sort of just happens somehow, and that I didn’t really have to do anything.)
“Wow. Okay. Next: What was my first word?”
“Um. I’ll have to look in your baby book. Next?”
“Mom! You don’t know what my first word was?!”
“C. It’s been 13 years. I’m sure it’s in your baby book!”
“Do you even know where my baby book IS?!”
” . . . ”
So, I was told that I’m a terrible mother and that I should feel really really bad about that. I did, too, for a second.
I hope I can find that damn baby book.
A wise woman once said that you know you have a lot of kids when you stop writing every detail of every thing in every blank in their baby books. My response was that you know you have a lot of kids when the last two don’t even HAVE baby books. I know, I should be ashamed. But life has been too hectic for such frivolities. I think self-degrading blog posts about their childhood is the gift that keeps on giving. It’s a living, breathing memoir. And also it doubles as free therapy for crazy mamas like me.