Whew. It’s been a hot minute. No worries though my dedicated reader or two. As you can tell, I’m still very much alive and kicking, just like my step dad. I wish I had a good excuse, like I went on a month long vacation to Fiji or Bora Bora, but nope. Just the same ole boring stuff. Unless you’re into kids and poop, then it’s like Disneyland in my house every day. I’m not going to write a whole lot today. I am still very much lost with what to do and what direction this blog will be heading. So many changes has been taking place lately and it’s left me stuck. For now I just wanted to update everyone and say that I am still here and my journey has just begun.
Honey. I have something to tell you. You may not like it. You may even hate me for it. So please sit down. And know that I have tried my best to ignore it but I can no longer fight or deny it. It has been eating me alive since I was a little girl. But I think it’s time that I no longer hide from my secret. This is who I am. The sooner I accept it, the sooner I can truly live my life the way it was meant to. So here goes it. I’m a closet……millionaire! Please don’t judge me.
No. I don’t secretly have millions. That’s so far from the truth. What I’m trying to say is that I wish I’m a millionaire, as in, that’s all I ever do, is wish. I have this feeling in my gut that I’m supposed to be rich but have no clue on how to make that happen. Wait, I take that back. I have a clue, I have ideas, but it’s following through with them, that’s the challenge. I’ve read all sorts of books on self help, hoping it would help find my “sweet spot” or “calling” or “purpose” but to no avail. They all say the same shit. Something about the way to wealth is doing what you love. But everyday is a struggle. How am I supposed to know what I’m passionate about when I’m not passionate about anything? Sure, I can spend hours shopping and not even know I’ve been looking at the same shit for an hour, but couldn’t that also be considered a time waster? How about sex? I like sex! Would that bring me wealth or herpes? Maybe I’ll win the lottery. But first I must play. Perhaps I can start my own business (a shop about sex). My college professor used to tell us that we all see opportunities, but what makes an entrepreneur different is that he/she actually goes for it and takes the risk. Which I obviously lack. So I dream about being a successful entrepreneur. I obsess about it. I read about it. I talk about it. I research and google about it. I am consumed by it, but does nothing to make it a reality. I wish there’s a simple answer to “How To Get Filthy Rich.” Then everyone would be in the 1 percent, right? Perhaps its fear of failure. Or just fear itself. Some say you choose it and others say you’re born with it. So is it in your DNA? The Steve Jobs, Warren Buffets, Bill Gates and Donald Trumps of the world, are they carrying some extra chromosome of some type that the rest of the 99 percent somehow is missing? Is that what makes them special? I sure hope not. Otherwise, I’m screwed.
Gotcha. Of course this has nothing to do with Lady Gaga. And if I were to write about Gaga, you have my permission to shoot me. Sorry Gaga fans. I’m just not one. I guess I’m biased having grown up in the 90’s! And since I’m older (for you young Gaga fans) let’s assume I know what I’m talking about. Madonna has already been done. By Madonna! Enough Gaga talk. It’s business time. Well, not really business, since I don’t have one. It’s just a metaphor for “I’m so tired of baby talks all day that I’m ready for some grown up like conversations.” My kids are my everything. Literally. I have no life outside of them. So here I am! A place where I can write about how I feel and have some kind of an adult conversation about my kids. With my computer. Pathetic. I know. If only this keyboard (KB) can talk! It would go like this.
Me: Fuck my life.
KB: Fuck your life? Imagine how I feel.
Me: What the fuck do you mean?
KB: You keep pounding on me like you’re Mike Tyson and I’m Robin Givens.
Me: Um, you’re a keyboard. I’m supposed to pound the shit out of you.
KB: Maybe if you went to typing school, you’d know that a backspace isn’t meant to be pounded. It’s not that kind of back space.
Me: At least you don’t have to clean up poop all day. And play the same game or sing the same song like I’m some kind of parrot.
KB: You talk about the same shit everyday. SAME SHIT.
Me: Fuck you. I’m getting off this computer.
KB: Fuck you too. I’ll see you in five minutes.
Five minutes later…
Me: I need a vacay.
KB: You ain’t lyin’.
Me: At least you get a reboot, an update and a weekly maintenance. I take care of you.
KB: What the fuck you talkin’ about? You are always shutting me down while I’m still running. That’s just not right.
ME: Well, that’s because you’re too slow.
KB: Bitch! I’m not taking this shit from you. Get out and find some real friends. I’m just sayin’.
ME: You mean, “I’m just typin’.” I kinda like our time together.
KB: I don’t. While you’re at it, you should probably see a shrink. I wasn’t made for this kind of shit.
Me: You ungrateful bastard. I should have bought a Mac.
KB: Mother Fu…
Let me start by saying that I love my son to pieces! Let’s call him Tee. I love him with all my heart and would take him however I can have him. I know that every child goes through a phase. Not long ago he was taking off his pants and diaper and thinks it’s okay to run around butt naked, in private or not. And now, we are in the anus phase. He just likes to get in there. Perhaps it’s a sensory thing. But either way, I really hope in time he will get over it. But everyday, twice, three times and sometimes four times a day, he picks his butt when there is shit in there! And it’s not like, he can say to me, “hey mom, I’ve got shit brewing so you might have to change me here in like, let’s say, thirty minutes?”
***If you’ve read my other post, you’d know that my child has no language at the moment, well, none that I speak anyway. I don’t wanna sound like I’m complaining and I hope I don’t offend anyone out there, especially parents that go through what my husband and I go through on a daily basis. Like I’ve mentioned before, it’s hard enough raising a typically developing child, and it’s even harder with a special needs child. ***Disclaimer***
Like I was saying, he is in there like a thong swimwear. So he picks his shitty anus, and he doesn’t yet understand that when you have shit on your hands, you oughta wash them in soap and hot water. So he ends up painting his room in brown because he picks his butt, then forgets he has shit on his hand, and touches everything else in the room. Needless to say, I have to sanitize my house at least three times, but if I’m lucky, just twice a day. I’ve tried googling things like, “why is toddler picking his poopy butt,” and most say, “give him a cold shower right after to teach him a lesson.” The funny or sad part is that my son happened to love cold water. So I can’t punish him that way because he would think it’s a reward. I’ve asked his teachers, his occupational therapist, neighbors, random people in line in front of me at the grocery store, because I’m thinking I can’t be the only one going through this crap. His OT said to get him one of those shorts for sensory seeking kids, but they’re like $80 for 1! I’m gonna need 7! Others say maybe it’s time to potty train him. Maybe he is trying to tell you to change his poopy diaper (duh, I’ve been trying since he was 15 months old). Or just let it be. He’ll get over it (easy for you to say because you’re not the one cleaning up the mess). I also read somewhere that I can buy one of those sleepwear where the zipper’s in the back, then he can’t get it off, thus eliminating his ability to dig in his poop. They too, were pricey. And then one day, after my fourth poopy cleaning for the day, I’ve had it! I just couldn’t take it anymore and went right into Amazon.com and ordered him 7 of the full body sleepwear for everyday of the week. I was so excited because you see I’m a Prime Member and I get the shit delivered to me in 2 days. So they get here and viola! Totally useless. I bought the flannel ones! In the middle of summer. I have yet to use them. So until it gets cold enough here in Southern California, I am stuck wiping shit on the carpet, the wall, the bed, the closet, the toys, just shit everywhere. And then I go in my bathroom, and cry for five minutes, just to realize that I left my son alone in his room to play with his poop yet again. Effing shoot me is the thought that comes to mind, except I use the actual effing word!
How about you? Have you had similar experience? If so, do you have any suggestions for me besides alcohol and medications? Holla atchagurl, hopefully before I volunteer myself to the loony bin. Piss and shit homey! Happy Monday.