Monday, February 27, 2012

The More Things Change...

...The more they stay the same.   You said it Tom!!

I've found myself sorta blank lately.  Some may call it nerves, some call it stress, some call it a mid-life crisis, my husband calls it "bat-shit crazy".  Call it what you want, but I've had sort've a blogger's block.  I'll have something pop in my head that I need to bitch about, and by the time my fingers hit the keyboard, it's either gone, or it sounds ridiculously stupid and I hit delete.

Anyway, part of my little "pre-midlife crisis" is probably stemming from the fact that one day I woke to the realization that I've become, like, a MOM or something.   I know what you're gonna say, "You've been a mom for almost 8 years, you're just realizing this now??"  I know I've technically been a mother since 2004, but only over the past year and a half have I realized that I've now become one of those moms that I always made fun of.  I was always sorta known as the "cool" mom, the "rocker" mom, the "tattooed" mom, the "f-bomb droppin'" mom, the "shows-a lot-of-cleavage, wears skin-tight jeans, fake eyelashes and big hair, chain-smokes, does countless tequila shots, and pukes out of the back of her brother's truck at Poison shows" mom.     Now I look in the mirror and I have no idea who this person is! All I know is that she really needs to put on some makeup.

The biggest change that's come over me is that I now do any and every thing I can to hide my "body art."  I mean, really?!  HUH?   Try to tell me when I was 18-22 that I'd ever be trying to hide them, and I would've very eloquently told you to "go make love with yourself".  Most people know that it's not like I have a 4 leaf clover on my ankle.  Ohhh, no, couldn't have been that simple.  I've got six of these freakin' things and they are NOT small in any way whatsoever.  And their placement couldn't be any harder to camouflage.  I don't know what triggered my self-conscience over them, but one day out of the blue, I threw on some capris, a halter, and pulled my hair back, and suddenly I went from the rocker chick who didn't care to "OMG, the only thing I'm missing is a pregnant belly in a crop-top with a Lucky Strike hanging out of my mouth in front of the trailer park!"    Suddenly I wanted to find one of those things that Muslim women wear, when you can only see their eyes.  It felt like the entire world was staring at me and I could just hear the whispers.  I'm guessing they'd been happening all along, but for the first time ever, it was like I could actually HEAR them. (Oh great, now I'm hearing voices) Either way,  I felt like Kat Von D in a prom dress.  

Then comes the crafts.  Now, this one, I'm gonna blame on Pinterest!  This evil website is bound and determined to turn me into a Stepford Wife.  The recipe hoarding was never a shock, because everyone knows that cooking is my one domestic skill.    But the crafts--OMG!  This board has me convinced that with only a brick, some yarn, a mason jar, and an old sock, I can create a brand new outdoor patio table.  Meanwhile, cut to me stuffing the sock in my son's mouth while smashing the mason jar with the brick.  Oh, but yet, I'll go find another one I like and I'm dumb enough to try it, too!    Seems like only yesterday when I was going to the store to buy vintage metal shirts and True Blood memorabilia, and next thing I know, I'm in Hobby Lobby for 4 1/2 hours and coming out with scrapbook paper and Mod Podge.  I'd never even HEARD of Mod Podge, and now I've got about 73 pins dedicated to it.    My sacred room upstairs used to be spent stalking people on Facebook, finding old Ratt videos on YouTube, and watching DVD marathons of Friday Night Lights, and now, here I sit with a friggin' hot glue gun, crystals, beads, brads, rotary blades, corner stamps, hole punches, quilting books, and scrap-booking embellishments, hearing Elmo in the background and all I can think is "How the hell did my life end up here??"

When I'm not baking Star Wars cupcakes for kindergarteners or creating a Death Star replica for my son's birthday, I'm gluing inspirational quotes and photos into memory books, cutting up my old concert shirts for a quilt, and chaperoning school field trips to the zoo (Yes, with the giant camera and 50ft zoom lens strapped around my neck).    I've gone from bedazzled Cinderella shirts, ripped jeans, and stilettos to turtleneck sweaters and ballet flats.  I just said ballet flats---ME, the girl who would wore 6 inch heels to stand outside for 3 1/2 hours waiting on Bret Michaels to come out of his tour bus.

Then there's Mommy Dearest.  With my older two kids, I was literally counting the milliseconds until I could ship them off to European boarding school Mother's Day Out.  But then here comes this little guy who I never in a million years thought I would ever even have, much less be so stinkin' attached to, and I've become the poster mom for Parenting Magazine or something.   I had him all signed up to start MDO in the fall, and then it came time to send in the paperwork and I just. couldn't. do. it.  I look in those big black eyes and can't even picture having to leave him somewhere.   I mean, seriously?!  What is with this sappy crap?  I know I started having kids too young, that's pretty obvious, but I just never thought it would be THAT different being a mom at 20 and being a mom at 28.  It's just insane.  I find myself staring at him like some kind of lovesick puppy and every single thing he does is somehow cute. And let's not even discuss the fact that I do baby sign language with him.  And I'll squeal in one of those godawful annoying voices when he does them without me asking.  Good gracious, I'm like a crazy first time mom, but for the third time.  I don't even know how to process this.

But the one that made me want to curl into the fetal position and die.  The final nail in the coffin. The other day, against my better judgement, found myself on the used car website looking at.....*breathes deeply*  wait for it....

MINI VANS!!



Dear God, make it stop!!!  I don't know what has come over me.  All I remember was walking to my car in the Target parking lot, lugging Gibson and 27 bags (I only went in for Aleve and diapers) and as I'm digging in the bottomless pit that is my purse, searching for that gargantuan wad of keys, I see this preppy little soccer mom prance up to her van, click one button and the door slid open.  I was staring daggers at her, as I was dropping bags (and the kid, probably) and all I could think was "I want a door that opens without touching it!"   Cut to me searching through Soccer Mom Pimp Rides website.    I mean, what next?  Am I gonna get one of those stupid stickers with the stick families and all of our names?  A megaphone decal with "SHELBY" emblazoned on it?  (Please, oh, please, oh please, if you're gonna spare me anything, PLEASE let it be cheerleading.  My poor mental stability can only handle so much)    But seriously, if anyone ever sees me in my driveway removing my "Defy Gravity" decal in an attempt to replace it with a stick-figure family of 6 with 2 dogs, or ANY kind of organized sport with my kid's name on it, I give you full permission to admit me into Lakeside...or just go ahead and put a bullet in my head.

I mean, is this a phase?  Is it like the time when I had my tongue and eyebrow pierced?  Or the time when I got the fabulous idea to color my hair?  (Note: Black hair, white skin and red eyebrows---not a good look on ANYONE)  Am I going to wake up and realize that I've just been over-medicating myself and the real me is happily waiting to reemerge?  Or is this what my life has now come down to?  Minivans, Mod Podge, and Muslim-wear?   Then I wonder, was the other life I knew all just a ruse?

All I know is that there are parts of me that haven't escaped and I'm bound and determined to keep them here.  I'm still a Vagabond through and through.  I'll never pass up a chance for a roadtrip to anywhere, and music and concerts are my life.  I'm still snarky and slightly foul-mouthed.  In order to be the parent of my children, if I didn't have a sense of humor, I would've been in a medically-induce psychological coma a looooong time ago.   (And in order to drive in Memphis traffic, you have to have a very diverse and colorful language.)   And even though I've somehow become an unwilling Desperate Housewife, I can promise you that you'll never see me making smocked john-johns, matching bunny jumpers, or shirts with puff paint (that one's for you, Kim!)

*sigh*   Well, I'd better go---don't want to be late for my interpretive Mommy & Me Zumba class.

Signing off---



The Artist Formerly Known as Ashleigh