Taking inventory.

I am far from any semblance of the quintessential mother/woman. If one were to be defined by their things, I'd say I'm screwed by modern-day's standards of living: Single mom, two baby daddies, trailer by the river, etc. Some days you look at your life sunny-side-down.
If you ever find yourself taking inventory and your list should appear similar to the one above, you may want to just admit one thing to yourself.  

"Self," you'll say, "you done Jerry'd up your life." 

There's really no way to pinpoint the moment that brought me to this state of a Springer life (all right, I'm sure there is, but that would require a nostalgic exegisis and we all know how well those go, don't we?). Regardless of the reasons, I'm in it. I'm neck-deep in the midday televised squalor of humanity.

But on days when one feels particularly worn out and emotionally underwhelmed with life, it's important one takes inventory of the miracles all around you. 

Here's my personal inventory:


One daughter. I am the proud owner of a sweet, pubescent tween who is happy to live out her days atop Mount Whateverest--::ugh::eye roll::--whilst communicating in monosyllabic grunts,  sighs....or worse, Broadway show tunes. 

One son. I never knew how expensive extracting quarters from an esophagus could be until I had this miracle of medicine. I attribute my closest emergency room friendships to him and his fearless appetite for...please, let's not give him any more ideas. 

One cat. This cat plays guess-what-it-feels-like-to-suffocate on a nightly basis when he finds no greater joy than cleaning his delicates while sitting on my sleeping face. 

Three-quarters of a dog. This don Juan of a dog finds joy in humping random dogs where ever he may find them. Having only three legs, my dog is always unsuccessful with his romantic interludes. These botched attempts at romance would be more entertaining if he simply avoided going for dogs that were tethered to their owners. Thanks to him, meeting new friends has never been more awkward. 

Yes, they are eight adorable sacks of childhood
 issues waiting to happen......

Eight baby chickens. I don't think of them as chickens but more severe traumatic events covered in downy adorableness simply waiting to peck-the-bucket. Chickens, like goldfish or sea monkeys, are not known for their longevity. They are obnoxious, flightless pooping machines that affix themselves upon the hearts of young, tenderhearted children only to face death on a daily basis if their downy keisters are not cleaned. It is because of this eminent threat of poop death that there is a toothbrush on my counter in a jar that says "not for faces...OR FOR MOTHERS."

One therapy jar. Because every day there is THAT moment. Because there is only ONE bathroom. Because Mom is still learning how to mom one humiliating mistake at a time. Because sometimes we run out of toiletpaper/peanutbutter/hours in the day/patience. Because on occasion I eff things up. And because I say "fuck" instead of "eff" most of the time...This is why we have a therapy jar.


Because sometime down the line, when my children are old enough to manage themselves, they'll realize that their mother effed things up. They might want to pay someone to talk about it. That is when I will give them a wad of nickels and twenty dollar bills and I'll look them in the eye and say, "I knew this day would come."

One perch. Once place that I can sit and drink coffee/kombucha/gin. It's where books are read and stories are built and then written. It's the place where nighttime jitters are quelled. It's a place where both secrets and giggles are shared. It's that one sweet spot in the house where we don't worry about the things we need to do or what we don't have.

This is not the place for inventory. The joy in a quiet snuggle with a child cannot be quantified in numbers. It's where the world, no matter how Jerry'd up it may be, is just right.

Clashin' fashion

"Wow, your little boy's Mohawk sticks up so well. What a little fashion plate!WHat do you use?" A woman at the gym asked me. I kind of think she was trying to be 'outside of the box', and dropping her standards of conversation to those whom don't wear designer workout clothing.
"Ummm, family secret. Generations of Mohawk wearing prohibits me from divulging the ingredients." I groan. It's not my intention to lie to someone that I have just met, but it's better than telling her the truth. And sometimes fashion products come from very different places.

Julian had been quiet for a few minutes when the panic set in. I rushed to the kitchen and found him on the counter, sticky forehead and a fistful of fruit gummies. Ew. I transferred him to the table where his tepid Top Ramen sat patiently, congealing. Magnolia had finished her sub-par snack and went to change for play rehearsal. In her attempts to be a Bohemian hipster, she emerged from her room, drenched in three shades of tie-dye. A loud shriek rang through my brain, converting itself into a deep sigh just before it crested my lips.
What do I do? Yes I want her to be original and creative, but when I have to watch orange and green wrap around each other at the same time brown speckles pink a visual induced nausea creeps in. I have to take a stand for fashion sense here."Magnolia, do you think that it's a little too much tie-dye?"
"But Mom, I look like a teenager. I'm cool!" And there you have it. How can one possibly dissuade another's ideas of fashion? Hip is in the eyes of the wearer.

And as Magnolia strides into the car looking like she had just been bludgeoned by a rainbow, I take another quick glance at Julian. He is still sticky and has something something on his forehead....
"Jules where did you get sticky?" I asked, not really ready to stomach the answer.
"Up there, on the counter on the sticky thing" He chimed as he led me to the culprit.
Waving in the air conditioning, there it was, the fly strip. Stifling yet another shriek, I plucked the dead fly bindi off his forehead and ran Jules into the bathroom to clean him up before we left for rehearsal and a gym class.
Fly paper has a strange consistency. Similar to burnt Teriyaki sauce. And the only way to get it off of hair is to treat the slime like you would bubble gum. Mayonnaise. That's the trick. We gave his hair a half-arsed scrub down and went on our way, his Mohawk unwavering in the wind.
These kids have a odd sense of style about them and for a minute, I thought that I should take it upon myself to give them some much needed fashion lessons....
...Until I looked in the mirror at the gym. Standing there, in all of my glory. A very stained white tank top with bits of sports bra sticking out around the edges, unshaven legs that were squeezed in to a pair of tighter-than-visually-palatable biking spandex and to top it off, a birds nest of three day uncleaned hair. EW! I think that I'll think twice about casting the first fashion stone at my children now.