March 14 was Pi Day. And I didn't even have any.

I have been known to sometimes occasionally okay, ALL THE TIME go to the refrigerator drive-through to eat until whatever emotion I am currently feeling (and don't want to anymore) goes away.

Helpful? If I want to go up a pants size, sure.

Does this make my butt look big?

Fooooooood, glorious fooooooooooood... you've always been there for me. Never letting me down. Never really helping, but always trying your best to fill whatever cavernous void was begging to be filled. Never mind that the giant hole was imaginary, and my stomach (and pants) only stretch so much, I ate whatever was in my way to make me feel better. Not unlike someone who cuts or burns themselves, I ate until I hurt. I'm not sure why I'm using "ate". Ate is past tense. I've done this as recently as yesterday.

And every time I succumb to my urge to binge, I look in the mirror. Usually with tear-filled eyes. And I give myself Manning Face.

Disappointed Payton is disappointed.

Life is stressful. Period. Throw in some variables such as a husband, wife, a few kids, jobs, aging parents, saving for whatever, making ends meet, disabilities, school, social life (or lack thereof), and life can just be pretty damned overwhelming. Food has always been my comfort. I may sound like I'm joking, but food never talked about me behind my back. Food never made fun of me and made me feel like I didn't belong. Food never left me. We celebrate with food - your favorite meal on your birthday, cake, ice cream, ice cream cake, Thanksgiving, Christmas - FOOD.

Now all those years of cramming food , eating my emotions, trying to find solace in something I knew wouldn't satisfy me has caught up with me. And I'm tired of not just looking at the size of my clothes, I'm tired of feeling this way. But you know what else? I'm just tired! I commute. I'm a single mom. Shortpants doesn't sleep worth a crap. Also?

I hate working out.

Hate it with the heat of a thousand fiery suns.

I've tried to like it. I've tried the plans, the diets, the workouts, the shakes, starving, all sorts of other unhealthy shit, and I know that it's simple math - burn off more than you take in - but I. HATE. IT.

This is the face I make when I try to eat stuff that's good for me. NOT a selfie, in case you were wondering.

I hate thinking what people at the gym are wondering when I'm jiggling over on the treadmill, I hate assuming that people driving by me as I walk are making fun of me, etc. My brain says "Shut up, stupid, they're not thinking anything that has anything to do with you." My lack of self-worth says "THEY'RE POINTING AT YOU. THEY'RE LAUGHING AT YOU. CALLING YOU FATASS AND SLOB AND CHEESEBURGER."

I am not nice.

To myself.

To everyone else I encounter, I'm overly pleasant. (Unless you know me. And then you know. And those of you that have stuck by me through the years, you have my eternal devotion. But of course you already know that.)

Do you know who Kid President is? If you said no, please leave this blog and go Google his ridiculously adorable face. I'll wait. Listen to his YouTube clips. Really listen. Because this 9 year old is changing my life. KP reminds me that shit's not that bad. Being mean (even to myself) shouldn't be an option. He is smart, eloquent, and says sage things like:

LOOK AT THAT FACE. And that cupcake. Nom.

Pity party over. Am I going to the gym? YES! Probably not. Am I going to make better, meaningful choices? Yes. He nailed it. Life is tough, no matter what cards are in the hand you were dealt. I'm going to stop being mean to myself and make this life meaningful. To stop wishing days would hurry past and live in the moment. To dance about it. To stop letting the scale and my pants size define me. To trust in others to help me through whatever it is I have going on. To remind myself I am not an island, and I deserve to be content. Proud. Loved. Every moment spent sad, angry frustrated, depressed, etc. is a moment I could have been happy. And happy is what I want to be. I choose to be. And damn, that's powerful.

Where I tell Mother Nature to suck it.

It's been not exactly pleasant at our house this weekend. Or last weekend, for that matter. In fact, it's been akin to a houseful of teenage girls on their cycle being told that one of the members of One Direction (it hurts me to know that I know this crap) has gotten engaged - yeah, that bad.

Depending on where you get your information (and unfortunately, not everything on the interwebs is accurate. I KNOW! Who knew!?), there are two schools of thought regarding whether barometric pressure affects us humans.

Well, gang - I'm here to tell you - IT DOES.

Every time we have a weather change, Shortpants is a maniac. And not a maniac, maniac on the floor, dancing like he's never danced before, no no no... maniac as in he's as unstable as a wolf in a room full of sheep,

You'd think by now he knows what's going to happen when he tries this crap.

 as a Jenga tower in a room full of three year olds,

I don't even know what's going on here, but unless he's trying to move the blocks by osmosis,
 I'd say this is a Jenga Fail.

  as me when I've forgotten my Zoloft and I'm out of coffee.

Yes, I know this is Britney Spears. And it appears she has something caffeinated in her hand. However, we all know how well that worked out for her. Don't fret, I'm not about to shave my head. But I think I've rocked this facial expression a time or seventyjillion.

Here in the merry ol' land of Kansas, Friday was hands-down GORGEOUS. 70ish, light breeze, warm sun, the perfectest perfect spring day. Saturday morning? Overcast. Chilly. Okay, not the end of the world, it's spring after all, not the most predictable season. UNTIL IT STARTED SNOWING. <commence end of the world music> 

We woke up to an inch or two of snow. Which will melt off by today because the high is almost 60. Long story short - I know, too late - the shortest person in this house has been a hot mess, and I am out of junk food to soothe me.

Admittedly, that's a good thing, but damn, kid. You make this getting healthy shit HARD.

So, weather changes, compounded by me forgetting to charge the iPad, equals a whole lot of plans getting canceled. I didn't even mention the barfs on Friday night because that was minor in the cluster that was this weekend. Thankfully, there was not a full moon - oh wait, that was last weekend! 

In sum, Mother Nature could use a Prozac enema. Or hormone therapy. Clearly, she's menopausal. Or stuck in the terrible twos. 

*In searching Google Images for a picture of Mother Nature, everything I found were these absolutely beautiful, ethereal women or these sweet, soft grandmotherly types. I find that very difficult to believe, unless it is a parallel to the exquisite Tom Hiddleston playing Loki. Regardless, she needs to get her poop in a group and stop making life miserable for everyone. Agreed? I thought so.*

Where I remind myself I am not Julie Andrews.

I adore Julie Andrews. First off, she's absolutely gorgeous and a complete class act. I think she is just fantastic in whatever role she plays. And as such, I have aspired to be her at times. I'd love to spin in the warm spring sun, arms outstretched, singing "The hillllllllllllllllllllllls are aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive.... with the sound of muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiic!" Alas, I live in Kansas. Not that we don't have hills - WE DO, contrary to popular belief! - but it certainly isn't Switzerland. Nor am I a nanny of a musically-inclined group of siblings. Which is unfortunate, because I would love to be able to give that adorable curly-haired stud on Glee a run for his money.

Who doesn't want to frolic and sing? ADMIT IT. You know you want to.

Mary Poppins is one of my favorite movies. Julie Andrews is a BADASS in that movie! Holy crap - I wish my kid would respond to "the look" like she got the Banks' kids to do! She is FIERCE! And she has magical stuff! OMG! I want her carpet bag o'stuff! I want to snap and my house to clean itself! I WANT TO FLY AND NOT HAVE MY HAIR LOOK LIKE, WELL, LIKE IT DOES RIGHT NOW! I want a super cute young Dick Van Dyke to be all in love with me and stuff! I want to be able to put the maid in her place! I want a maid! I want a tea party on the ceiling! I want cartoon penguins to dance for me and be all flirty and stuff! I want songs written about me! I want every holiday with Kelly to be jolly! Wait. Maybe I hate her. I need to think about that for a minute.

Look at that bitch face. OMG. I only hope my "look" is a fraction of that awesomeness.

Irritated Mary is irritated. But Bert is adorbs, no?

I know I look like this. A LOT.

Teach me, Julie. TEACH ME.

Even though Audrey Hepburn is the face of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, Julie played Doolittle on Broadway. Had she been cast in the movie, there would have been no Mary Poppins, so see, kids? FAILURE IS OKAY. To thoroughly show my appreciation for Dame Andrews (you have to be a legit badass if the Queen of England says you are!), here is my rendition of "My Favorite Things" from My Fair Lady:

Not Exactly My Favorite Things

Sippy cups that I find under the car seat

With just enough milk to make a big, foul stink

Strawberry jelly on the curtains, you see

These are not exactly my favorite things.

Discovering all of the stuff in the heat vent

Counting all of the money I have spent

To replace all of the lost pacis you fling

These are not exactly my favorite things.

When you don't sleep

When I have to sweep

Up a giant mess

I start to remember more unfavorite things

And then I start to stress.

And then I look at your sparkling blue eyes

Your grin that can light up the darkest of night skies

The sounds that you make when you're content, you see

These are a few of my favorite things.

When you want to do nothing but snuggle

I don't worry about all the stuff that I juggle

All of my frustration and frowns go and take wing

Because you are my most favorite thing.

Today's Dose of Perspective.

If I can read that upside down, it makes me like super Wile E. Coyote super genius smart, right? Sweet.

Working in the mental health field, I see a lot of different situations. Different backgrounds. Different cultures. Different diagnoses. Never a dull moment in my office, that's for sure. I just realized that if I didn't point out in what area I worked, you might have thought I was talking about WalMart. I just kind of blew my own mind right there.

One thing that is somewhat of a common denominator, though, is expectations. And I've come to realize that they just piss me off.

*gasp!* A therapist and mother doesn't approve of having expectations? No wonder she's got problems.

Hold on just a minute, external-that-was-supposed-to-be-internal monologue! I definitely approve of expectations. Just realistic ones.

I present the following exhibits to the Court:

*These are in no way examples of any of my clients. This is plain ol' comedy and common sense, folks. 

And seriously, like you don't know people like this? Read on.*

1. If you are the parent of a teenager, and you are expecting their hygiene to improve, you might want to consider taking a shower more than once every few days yourself.

2. If you want your kid to have a clean tidy room that is free of hazmat, you may consider making sure your own bedroom is up to par with what you expect theirs to be.

3. You parking it on your butt in the recliner with coffee watching a marathon of Hoarders while your free help kids do more chores than you do is probably not going to enhance your relationship with them.

4. Yelling at a child to not yell... I don't think I even need to finish this one.

5. After going through Acme Drive Through, you say "Make sure to finish your apples!" while you're slamming 4-5 french fries in your maw.

6. If you want to drop a few pounds to increase the ol' self-esteem, acting like every day is National Pancake Day might not help you achieve said fitness goal.

7. Expecting your children to have manners when you chew with your mouth open, talk with your mouth full, pick your nose without a tissue covering your finger, and adjust yourself in public makes you a moron.

I love pancakes.

I mean, like I said, none of these are about anyone I know. Promise.

Even with all of Shorty's limitations, that doesn't give me carte blanche to act a straight fool in front of him. It's not a "YOUR KID IS NON-VERBAL. DROP THE F-BOMB ALL DAY EVERY DAY" get-out-of-jail free card.

*Although it's tempting, isn't it?!*

Kids are not free-range. It would save a lot of time in the kitchen, both cooking and cleaning, so maybe I should look into that, come to think of it. But even when that kid of mine is busy doing God-knows-what, I'm teaching. He's absorbing and learning. Which explains quite a bit, actually... except him wanting to pick MY nose. That, I just don't understand. But I probably need all the help I can get, so I'll let that slide. Thanks, dude.

Where I compare Parenting to a Video Game.

My son is four. He's a lot of things, but mainly, he's a four year old boy. Do you know what that means?

He can be kind of an asshole.

Yep. I said it. And I mean it. I know a lot of bloggers have gotten flack lately for calling their spawn the little a-holes that WE ALL KNOW they can be. Every critter that has taken a breath on this planet has the capacity to be a jerkface at one point or another. Even non-breathing things. Like my garden that refused to grow. ASSHOLE GARDEN.

Shortpants is four. Being a jerk comes with the territory.

Example 1: "THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANTED EVEN THOUGH I JUST POINTED TO IT AND GAVE YOU MY ASSENT TO OPEN IT AND EVEN IF I DID WANT IT POINT TWO SIX SECONDS AGO I DON'T WANT IT NOW AND WHY DON'T YOU GET THAT YOU STUPID WOMAN?"

Example 2: "WHAT DO YOU MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAN I HAVE TO WASH MY HAIR! YOU SAID TAKE A BATH NOT WASH MY HAIR! THIS IS SUCH BULLSHIT. NO - WAIT - WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOING DON'T WASH MY HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Example 3: "NO I DON'T WANT TO GO OUTSIDE EVEN THOUGH IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. I'D REALLY RATHER WAIT UNTIL THE GUY WITH THE ROAD MAINTAINER COMES TO GET ALL OF THE GRAVEL AND SHIT OUT OF THE GUTTERS AND THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Tell me what part of those three examples doesn't scream asshole to you.  I'll wait right here. Patiently.

Four year olds are geniuses at pushing the almighty buttons of the parent. "What, you thought I was done with that glass-shattering screech when I was two? Check this out! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHH!" Button pushed. Successfully, I might add. I'm waiting to hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!" every time this, or something similar happens. Like two weeks after I needed a plumber to take the toilet apart because someone WHO MIGHT BE A FOUR YEAR OLD ASSHOLE flushed two bathtub toys, a washcloth, and a disposable razor - flushed God knows what because I'm still paying off the plumber from the first time and thank God I have two toilets and SWEET JESUS WHY DID I BUY THE TOILET THAT CAN FLUSH 10 GOLF BALLS WHEN I OBVIOUSLY NEEDED ONE THAT COULD FLUSH BATHTUB TOYS AND WASHCLOTHS AND A DISPOSABLE RAZOR?!

Do I hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!"? More like "LEVEL UP."

Shit.

She can be taught! Installment Uno!

I decided in the middle of my funk today that I was going to start a weekly list of all the things I learned throughout the week to make the crap salad I was force fed the last few days all rainbows and unicorns and silver line-y and all that. Note: this list is compiled entirely from the kids I work with. (I am a therapist at a community mental health center and I work primarily with kids. My head spins all.day.long. I pink puffy heart my job.)

We'll see how this goes. Something tells me probably nowhere near I intended. As with most of my ideas. I digress. As usual. Anyway.

1.  I need a haircut really badly. He (and he's five, mind you) also told me I might consider "Put some brown on your hair that isn't brown, Miss Kelly. Hair is supposed to be all one color. Like mine." Mmmhmm. Thanks, kid.

2.  I look like a Queen! Also? If I would put a crown "right there" I would look "just like a queen! Not a princess. Princesses are young like me. And you're old. So you would be a Queen." Awesome.

3.  I'm annoying and I get on people's nerves. I KNOW! I gasped just as loud as you just did! "Miss Kelly, since we're practicing telling our feelings in a way that isn't hurtful? I just wanted to let you know that sometimes you're really annoying and you get on my nerves. Is that how I'm supposed to do it? Did I hurt your feelings? I hope not, but you really can! And do! But you're kind of awesome." Um, thanks? And no. And not really, but this is kind of awkward, and thanks. I know.

4.  Pieces of paper don't mean you're smart. "Miss Kelly, I think I'm smarter than you are, and I'm only 6. I know you have dergrees and stuff, but I know a lot." Teach me, Obi Wan.

5.  I don't color worth a crap. "You missed a spot." "You can see your marker lines!" "Did you take art in school?" Yes. "Are you sure?!" Yes. "Really?!" "TYRONE'S SHIRT IS NOT RED AND BLUE IT IS ORANGE AND BLUE! I THOUGHT YOU HAVE KIDS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THIS!" Everyone's a critic.

6.  I have no taste. "Miss Kelly, you sure got a lotta crap in your office." Michael, I'd like for you to say that again with appropriate language and in a way that isn't hurtful. "BUT YOU DO! THERE'S CRAP EVERYWHERE IN HERE! I MEAN STUFF! THERE'S STUFF EVERYWHERE IN HERE! Is that better?" Um, kinda.

7.  Expect the unexpected. "Miss Kelly, I need to go potty." Okay, let's go! "Oh, I mean I needed to go potty. I did go potty." On my couch? "Kinda. And kinda on the floor. And in my shoe." Siiiiiiiiiiiiiighhhh...

Gee! I wonder what sorts of life lessons will be lobbed at my face like a knuckleball next week?

Or in about five minutes. Since Shortpants is ninja quiet...

Where I Need Smacked - With a 2x4

I'm having one of those days where the minutes are creeping by and I have nothing to do, and all I want is to be entertained and no one is posting on Facebook, and I'm not getting any new emails, and my child is keeping himself occupied (!!!), and no one is texting me or calling me, and wait...

I'm seriously complaining that the weekend is going slow and that no one is bugging the everloving crap out of me?

Someone slap me.

Hard.

P.S. That up there? Full of lies. There's always something to do. Like laundry, or dishes, or more laundry. If I was independently wealthy, I'd have a laundry boy. Or girl. I'm not picky. I'll even wash. Just fold and put away for me and I'll worship the ground you walk on.

Chasing that elusive "Me Time"

Oh Kelly, quit your complaining.... you have ONE kid who is generally in bed by 8:00. What's the problem?

The problem is I'm exhausted. Therefore, Shortpants and I have the same bedtime lately. Well, I'm in bed at a decent enough time, but asleep? Pfft.

Our day starts in the dark. I hit snooze until I can't squeeze anymore minutes out of "Okay, if I don't leave in X minutes, I'm going to be late", stumble to the shower, while in the shower decide to wear pants so I don't have to waste time shaving, get out, throw some gunk in my hair to make it look like I meant it to be that way, attempt to conceal the bags and sags and zits, and then... head to his room.

This is where it is different every day. Some days I hear happy jabbering (Yay! This morning is going to be eeeeeeeeeeeeeasy peasy!). Some days I hear the cutest snoring on the planet (This could prove interesting. I have a 50/50 shot as to how he's going to wake up - smiles or screams. Crap.). Some days I have heard him hollering way before my alarm was ORIGINALLY set to go off - and let's be completely honest here - I stick my nose in his door and take a huge sniff to make sure it's not pants related before I say "Just a second!" and go take my 3 minute shower.

I know what you're thinking. Really, I do. Because I think the same thing. But if you think a tornado has anything on my kid, you're wrong. Very, very wrong.

Also? Shortpants is on the Autism Spectrum - on the severe end. He doesn't speak, and he still sleeps in his crib. I know he's four. That's another post.

Usually (key word right there), I say "Good morning, Sunshine! Let's get ready for schoooooooool!" (because THAT's not annoying first thing in the morning) and he'll head to the door in his pajamas and 8 lb pullup. It's a good sign though, because getting him dressed shouldn't be too much of a fight. Half of that is managed because we still have temperatures that are equivalent to living in a volcano, so we don't have to deal with socks. Ask me later. I don't have the strength.

Anyway, he's either cooperative or he's not. Duh. Just like any other kid. And then we figure out what we want for breakfast (cereal or cereal - in a cup, because milk can't touch it - and that's fine, because it's commute-friendly), and THEN? It's meds time.

Holy Hand Grenades, I wish this wasn't an option, but life pre-meds? Neither my heart nor my brain will consider it for a second. I think he understands these help, but he hates taking them, unless they're covered with butterscotch pudding or strawberry yogurt. And even then, it's a chase around the house, and lots of attractive begging and pleading from me, and "Just one bite!" gets said about a thousand times, and the mouth will open! And the spoon gets shoved in! And then... well... the last couple of days we've figured out that we have two options - spit or swallow. And spitting has been the favorite lately, much to my dismay. But there are times that I'm pleasantly surprised, like today, for example.... he's been a complete trainwreck all morning, but I didn't even have to ask him to take his medicine, he stood there like a little baby bird waiting for his mama to give him something to eat. (Aww.) That's the last thing he's been cooperative about this morning, but hey - one is better than none, right?

We get in the car, and head down the road - still in the dark. We have a 2.5 hour round trip commute. Yeah. Awesome. And we listen to a combination of Phineas and Ferb, The Backyardigans, Laurie Berkner, and thrash metal on the way. (Well, after an hour of those three, my brain is bleeding, S.I.M.P. SQUIRRELS IN MY PANTS is permanently stuck in my head, and I might as well have listened to thrash metal all the way as much as my head is throbbing.). He goes to school or daycare, and I get back on the highway to go the last 25ish minutes to work. Which is when I turn on usually a country station and daydream about Blake Shelton. Or Luke Bryan. Or Jake Owen. Oh, Jake Owen.... you're so hot....

I digress. Off to work, save the world, try to remember who is picking Shorty up (because no daycare will stay open past 6, and when do I get off work? You guessed it.), and head home. Monday through Thursday, I drive home alone. Yes, I guess that's technically "me time", but since I have to get home and I have to drive - my definition of "me time" doesn't include any "have tos". Get home, dinner, bath, bed, collapse.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Ideas? Thanks in advance.

Love,

A Mom who would love to actually know what's on tv this season, or what's going on in the world, or have a hobby, or know what other adults do past 830 at night.

Awesome/Suck... Not to be confused with Face/Off.

Garage sales where you make BANK.

So, okay, the garage sale didn't so much suck - as I twiddled my fingers a la Mr. Burns and counted my Benjamins, er, Lincolns (dolla dolla bill, y'all), but the getting ready for the damned thing? Please find the following list of situations I'd rather find myself in rather than doing that again. Ever.

1. Have bamboo skewers inserted under my fingernails.
2. Be hung by my toenails (a threat commonly uttered by my Grandpa, and terrified me as a child. I now know better, but still, that would definitely suck.)
3. Poke myself in the eye with a fork.
4. Get tased, Bro!
5. Be forced to watch a marathon of Calliou episodes. (Or Super Why. Make it stop. Please.)
6. Learn that coffee is a figment of my imagination.
7. Have my ex-husband move in next door.

Have I made my point yet? Getting ready for this garage sale was like being served the world's largest shit sandwich and being forced to eat every bite before dessert. First of all, there were literally hundreds of pieces of itty bitty kid clothes and toys to arrange artfully (evidently just throwing shit in a bunch of boxes and letting people go through them isn't okay. Who knew.) and it was eleventybillion degrees with infinity plus one percent humidity. That, and every mosquito in the tri-county area was trying to get in my pants. (No lie. I have a ridiculous amount of skeeter bites on unexposed skin. Little fucking perverts.) I'm not sure exactly how they stuck onto my leg to even bite me, as I was unsure if I was sweating or someone sprayed me down with the garden hose. Oh, wait. I smelled like pickled skunk ass, so it definitely wasn't the hose.

Anyway, we decided to put things out the night before, since it wasn't supposed to rain, but as much dew that covered all of my stuff, it might as well have. Whatever. I wasn't going to do shit at 4 am but sleep, hopefully, so I wanted to get as much done the night prior as possible. It. Was. Miserable. And then I forgot to set my alarm clock. And then my mom left the money bag outside while we took a short nap. (None is missing, thank you citizens of my tiny town for being so fucking rad!) And I still have a shit ton of nauseatingly cute onesies and crap left, so there very well may be a part deux... especially since I made enough for a car payment and a half today. Can I get a wut wut? (Oh, it's not cool to do that anymore? Are you also insinuating I should stop doing the sprinkler and cabbage patch when I dance? Damn it. No, I don't know how to Dougie, in case you were wondering.)

And because no day is complete without something to say WTF about, I might have broken my finger. At a garage sale. Who manages to do that? Me. I swear, I'm the Napoleon Dynamite of Indiana Street.

In all seriousness:

I'm really struggling today.

I'm going through boxes of Shortpants' clothes, preparing for a massive garage sale. It is beyond time that this is done, but I've put it off for so long because I knew how emotional it would be. And I'm talking levels of emotion here.

Level number 1: My little guy is four. FOUR. Holy crap. FOUR. It's not hard for a second to remember him tiny, and squishy, and wiggly, and screamy, and AWAKE, but it's just a reminder that my boy is a big kid now, and I just don't like it one bit.

Level B: It takes me back to a life that no longer exists. When his dad and I were married. When I thought I was happy. When I thought I was doing all I could to be the best mom and wife I knew how to be, and it wasn't enough. When I couldn't see the forest for the trees. When I was working so hard to keep my head above water and make sure my kids were first and foremost, as they should be, and that wasn't enough.

Level III: I'm done having babies. As in, I can't have any more babies. After a hysterectomy this summer (more on that another day), this oven is closed for business. And it's a really good thing and really sucky all at the same time, and another another day, when my thoughts aren't jumbled by the massive traffic jam going on in my brain right now, I may attempt to decipher my thoughts and emotions surrounding that. I just don't have the energy today.

It also takes me to a time before the Autism diagnosis. When I was worrying about his development and his doctor wasn't concerned, and I knew something wasn't quite right, but we just kept on l-i-v-i-n, because as I mentioned above, keeping my head above water and fighting my anxiety and depression that follows me wherever I go in check was almost more than I could handle.

I know it's just stuff. I get that. But just like smells can spark a memory, so can his tiny little socks and badass shirts (that a certain someone told me I probably shouldn't send him to daycare in again...lol). I can't wipe out those memories, for unlike people who come and go in and out of our lives, memories stay.

I should mention that I am the happiest I have been in years. I am in a relationship with someone who has shown me what love truly is - what it means to love fully and to be loved fully in return. I have a son who is the light of my life, and I am so honored to be his mama.

Today just kind of sucks though.

That's all.

And then...?

Something happened earlier this week that I don't think has ever happened before in the history of me. I was getting ready for work, kind of running behind, tripping over the kid, trying to make a mental list of all the shit that I can't forget (because I am not organized and do that at night because I like my sleep) and I looked in the mirror.

Okay. I  have looked in the mirror before. Sentence structure and thought development probably should happen AFTER coffee is consumed.

So I looked in the mirror. I have a  habit of putting my pjs back on and doing my hair and make up. For two reasons: 1) My pjs are ugly and grandma-y and fucking COMFY, and B) there's a 99.99% chance I'll wind up with mascara, toothpaste, and somehow yesterday's breakfast on my work clothes. I'm not one for hanging out around my house naked, and the kid thinks belly buttons are fascinating and will attempt to try to use mine as a hiding place for some random toy, so no.

Hair? Cooperated! Makeup? Bags and zits (wtf, I'm 36 years old, take a fucking hike already) covered! Do I look..... good? Borderline sexy?!? I DO! Holy shit! Even in my grandma jammie pants, white Hanes t-shirt (tagless, thankyouverymuch Michael Jordan), no bra and my test tube boobs just kind of dangling... I. Felt. SEXY.

And then? I found a gray nose hair.

Good feeling gone.

Of course.