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.

Busticate: Requiem for a Sock

Busticate is the dictionary word of the day. I feel like I have busticated. Busticated? Is that the proper form of the word? It means falling into pieces. Sometimes, that’s me. I feel like I’ve been busticating for years.

During pregnancy, I busticated over everything. I busticated over the lonely sock that was suffering alone and miserable at the bottom of the laundry basket, forced to lay there with all of the happily coupled socks that were dwelling in blissful sock matrimony. That poor sock, so alone in the world. Missing her partner, no doubt a victim of my own foul laundry play. The spouse was writhing someplace where a week ago I had mopped up a coffee spill or stuck under a hastily made fitted bed sheet in the closet. Just knowing the agony that sole-surviving sock was feeling placed me in a borderline state of bustication.

Now that the children found their way out of utero, the act of bustication is a shared experience. Both of my walking, talking and demanding children will create a sense of chaos with the slightest thing. The last peach-flavored popsicle, for example, will incite the most vigorous flailings and whinings, that often wreak havoc on my sanity. It begins with a quivering of a lip. Two sets of eyes on the last surviving popsicle. The sets of eyes ultimately fall on the mediator--a.k.a. mom. Each child then begins to lobby for precious corn-syrupy ice cube. “I deserve the popsicle because I cleaned the toilet, and the kitty litter, and I have been forced to put up with my little bother [brother] all day, and I haven’t hit him once,” my daughter notes. Her persuasive argument is well thought out. My son, four, approaches the argument by way of pathos. “I-I-I,” he begins indignantly, and whines. Then he changes his tactics, “I [sigh] love you mommy.” His methods of manipulation are at an accelerated level for his age, my therapist told me. My therapist also noted, albeit in a more esoteric manner, that my son’s talent at such a young age has more or less screwed me for life. I want to busticate.

If one of my children were to receive the peachy popsicle, than the other will busticate, and vice-a-versa. There is only one thing to do. We split it. Each kiddo gets have of their daily dose of hardcore, after-lunch sugar and within twenty minutes, curtains are being pulled down and legos are being planted in the carpet for the vacuum and flash cards are being used as ninja throwing stars. The spillover aggression within the toy room has made all other rooms war-spoiled. I attempt to pick up the remnants of my home as the children begin frothing at the mouth, looking for their next sugar fix. I hold my breath for their inevitable after-sugar comas when they sit, transfixed at the T.V. The house busticates.

I begin reclaiming the house as the lull hits the two feral children on my couch, and I think about how “falling to pieces” has changed for me over the years. Now solo socks seem trivial. I hardly mourn the lost sock, but now trow the orphan in the “dust rag” section of the closet, where I’m sure it’s love awaits. Now bustication means broken limbs or holes in walls or coffee spilling on library books. The time to “fall to pieces” is gone, and left for my children. Perhaps I’m getting an emotional catharsis from their tantrums and ruckus. I’ll just have to trust that socks will mourn for themselves and leave me to pick up the real pieces in life.