Category Archives: Bad Mommy

Rock Star

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I took Dr. Sheepdog’s advice on the life affirmation, and shortly thereafter began exhibiting signs of too much of a good thing.  So I quickly called the office of Hot Doc to see if he could analyze my urine and write me a script that would lessen my urge to pee every three to five minutes.

I knew that I was traveling on a rocky road when counsel with Hot Doc didn’t provide me even a sliver of pain relief.  His killer smile and collaboration on a prank yielded no respite (He told me to tell Sheepdog no sex for four weeks. I chose to tell Sheepdog I was pregnant.  Sheepdog found neither to be funny).

Controlled substances gave me little lull in my torture, so I reverted to witchcraft, sorcery, and tricks of old.  I practiced meditation, controlled breathing and visions of my happy place to manage the diabolical torture my body was going through.  Oh, and I had signed up to deliver dinner to not one but two friends that day, so I had that to distract me.  By the end of the day I was convinced that I was dying.  I tried to pee one more time.

Sweet relief of Jesus.  Afterwards, I dialed Sister C’s phone number and waited.  When I finally heard an adult female voice at the other end of the line I screamed, “I just peed out a rock!”

“Um… this is Mary, the babysitter.  Sister C and House Captain went to a Braves game, so you can try them on their cell phones.  But it sounds like you just passed a kidney stone.”

If April showers bring May flowers, what do Mayflowers bring?

If April showers bring May flowers, what do Mayflowers bring?

Later, I reached Sister C and she (being the kidney stone expert in our family) confirmed.  But apparently I’m supposed to save the little bastard for lab tests and whatnot (I didn’t).  And I now need to make adjustments to my diet and whatnot (less calcium, lower sodium, fewer animal proteins… basically get rid of all the fun stuff).

Hot Doc sent me a message via secure client portal this morning.  My urine culture returned negative for evidence of urinary tract infection.  Duh.

So I responded with this:

I’m not too surprised, because later that day I peed out a rock… my very first kidney stone! I just figured I was dying because it hurt like a mother all day. After it passed, I felt so much better but it took my body a day or two to completely recover. I did finish the course of antibiotics you gave me.
I guess I’ll just know for next time (fingers crossed there will be no next time) when I have acute lower back pain or throbs in my flank and groin and waves of debilitating agony that make me throw up, that another stone is rolling its way down the chute.
At least I remembered my Lamaze breathing. That really helped! Plus, I’m kind of a badass. That helps too.
I will follow up with my urologist.
Giddyup (that’s a stirrup joke because you are my gynecologist),
Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog says I’m going to get fired as his client.  I’m still on pain meds.  That’s my story and I am sticking to it.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

You Are My Mother

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

My three sisters and I usually go in together on group gifts for all of the major holidays.  This Mother’s Day was no exception.  We got Mom a new beach cart – sweet, right?

The deal is that we also send her our own cards.  However, I frequently forget to mail mine.  This Mother’s Day was no exception.  To make up for it, I wrote my mother a song, sung to the tune of “You Are My Sunshine,” originally recorded in 1939 by the Pine Ridge Boys from Atlanta, with a copyright 1940 by Peer International Corporation, words and music by Jimmie Davis and Charles Mitchell.  P.S.  I’m going to butcher all of that right now.

You Are My Mother by Stacy Swiger

The other night, mom, as I lay (not) sleeping
I dreamt I mailed your Mother’s Day card
But when I awoke, Mom, it was still on the counter
So I hung my head and I cried
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
You’ll never know Mom, how much I love you
Because I forgot to mail your lovely card
 
I’ll always love you, because you’re my mom,
You grew me in your baby oven
You changed my diapers, you kissed my boo-boos
You were the first to give me unconditional love(n)
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
You’ll never know Mom, how much I love you
Because I forgot to mail your mediocre card
 
You taught me so much, like “please” and “thank you”
You taught me how to write my name
You taught me how to cook, and bake, and sew things
You showed me that having kids can drive a mom insane
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
You’ll never know Mom, how much I love you
Because I forgot to mail your bush-league card
 
You survived my teen years, then planned my wedding
You watched my kids when I went back to work
I am so sorry for the times I hurt you,
When I was selfish, annoying, or a jerk
 
You are my mother, my only mother
You make me happy (well, most the time)
I’m telling you now Mom, how much I love you
Oh, I’m so happy I never mailed that effing card!
 

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MOM!

 
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A Mother of a Holiday

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

“That’s it!”

“I have had ENOUGH!”

“I am not going to put up with you ingrates any more!”

“If I have to say it one more time, my head will explode!”

“OK, I’m done.  You have broken me.  Are you happy now?”

So, it’s been fun at our house the past few days.  Please, sense my extreme sarcasm.  I have said all of the above, or comparable paraphrases, at least once in the past 24 hours.  I don’t know if it is a full moon rising or shark week right around the corner, or what, but I am a right angry mother.

Kid D has been home sick all week.  It is not his fault that he is sick, but for-the-love-of-all-things-holy, why do boys have to be so freaking needy when they are sick?  It is a cough and some mild puking.  It’s nothing to get in a kerfluffle about.  I realize that the whining is a genetic male defect, and I know that you’re bored, but please let me sit on the toilet without you knocking on the door so you can tell me that Craig Kimbrel had his 100th save against the Giants last night, and he’s the second youngest pitcher in the MLB to do it, and you’re hungry for something but you just don’t know what.

And Kid E has decided to stop sleeping through the night again.  For no reason.  He says he gets lonely.  I’m too tired to even come up with a response to that.  The broken sleep thing kills me.  There is not enough coffee in the world (especially when Sheepdog and Kid A take the very last K-cups in the house) to fix me right the next day.

And the girls are in full-on battle mode with each other.  Kid C came to me and complained that Kid B is a tyrant.  They share a bathroom, and Kid B has apparently set forth some rules that Kid C does not necessarily agree with.  They fight over time limits in there, closed doors and lights.  This morning Kid C was straightening her hair in the dark so as to not awaken the Kraken.  They fight about who left what in the shower.  And Kid A and Kid B constantly fight over clothes (clothes that NONE of them ever put away after I have lovingly washed, folded and delivered to their rooms each week, even after I have reminded them daily).  I tell them they have to learn to figure it out on their own, otherwise they will get eaten alive in a sorority house or in the workplace with dudes or on the playground with the other mommies when they grow up.  Stand up for yourself, but be kind and thoughtful to the people around you at the same time.  But nobody listens to me.

Until I have had enough.  Then they all had better lend an ear.

It got so bad with Kid A that I gave her a Come to Jesus in the kitchen when she got home yesterday.  She has had a really rough year, but enough is enough.  Enough with the disrespect.  She is dismissive to the other kids and rude to me, unless she wants something.  Her phone, laptop and car are all up on the block for repossession if things don’t improve ASAP.  She is never home and when she is, she is usually disagreeable.  To a degree she is “just being a teenager,” but there are some behaviors that are simply not acceptable.  So the rest of the kids got dressed down last night or this morning as well.

Did I mention that Sheepdog is in California for work and some biking?

Motherhood is hard.  There are no instructions or rules, so you just have to make stuff up as you roll along.  And not only do I second guess some of my decisions, but everybody else around me does as well (don’t worry… I most likely judge you right back).

Also, motherhood never ends.  You have to do it when you are sick, or tired, or sick and tired.  You have to do it on weekdays and holidays (even the federal ones).  Sometimes you have to do it when you husband is on a business trip, or crappier yet – sometimes moms have to do it all alone.

This is getting really negative.  I need to make a U-turn.

There are also a ton of rewarding things about motherhood.  I can’t articulate any of them right now, but deep down I know that there are a lot of great reasons to purposely choose motherhood as your life sentence.  There really are.  I swear.

OK, not such a great effort, so I’m heading back to my rant.

Do you know what I really hate?  I hate Mother’s Day.

There, I said it.

I hate all of the commercialism, the flowers (dead in a few days) and the cards ($5.99 for folded paper, really?) and the candy (did you not see me struggling to work out every day this week?).  I hate the stress of coming up with the perfect gifts to let my mom or mother-in-law know just how much they mean to me.  I hate that dads and kids are forced to create a perfect day for moms on this randomly designated Sunday in May, because it rarely rises to meet the mark – for the dads, the kids or the moms.  I hate that my annual trip out of town over the second Sunday in May (Mother’s Day – Run Away and No, He Didn’t!), got canceled again due to scheduling conflicts.

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So, here’s what I propose.  Get rid of Mother’s Day.  It is too much pressure on everybody involved.  Nobody has a relationship with their mother that is simple enough to be tied up with wrapping paper and a bow, and everyone involved knows it.  Just make sure to tell your mom (and any mom, for that matter) how great you think she is, whenever the thought strikes you.  You don’t have to save it for any particular day.  Crappy jewelry turns green or goes out of style; a compliment is forever.

And maybe you could also put away your clothes, stay in your own bed, don’t talk back, and be nice to your sister.  Oh, and get well soon, Kid D.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Undercover Awesome

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

So… who had “48 hours or less” in the puppy pool?

Ding!  Ding!  Ding!  We have a winner!

Yesterday at lunchtime, after days of not being able to sleep or eat and after being on the phone for almost an hour with the dogs’ foster mom trying to have her talk me off the ledge, I loaded Maverick and Iceman back into the giant dog crate, along with about $250 worth of awesome puppy gear, and drove them back to the Chattahoochee River Club.  Oh, yes I did.  And I feel like a horrible, horrible human being.

You can not name a dog Goose, because Goose dies in the middle of the movie. And yes, I realize that Maverick and Iceman were enemies. But in the end they joined forces to successfully overcome their own flaws and shoot down the MiGs. Yay, Top Gun!

You can not name a dog Goose, because Goose dies in the middle of the movie. And yes, I realize that Maverick and Iceman were enemies. But in the end they joined forces to successfully overcome their own flaws and shoot down the MiGs. Yay, Top Gun!

I have birthed and am raising five children.  I manage a home and our finances and a complicated schedule and I (occasionally) write this blog.  I keep food in our pantry and clean clothes in our drawers.  I am sometimes overwhelmed with chaos, but generally things run pretty smoothly around here.  Until Sunday when those little poop machines came in and set me spinning.  What is wrong with me?

I came into this situation with such pure and good intentions.  I planned and prepared and did it over a period of more than six weeks.  We came up with fabulous dog names from an iconic 80′s movie.  I took baby steps.  I still knew deep down inside that I am not a dog person by nature, but I truly believed that I could overcome my discomfort and even fear with the power of positive thinking.  Wow, was I wrong about that.  I was a complete wreck for almost three days.  I actually had a physical reaction once the puppies were here.  And to make things worse, I could not get out of my own head either.  It made me feel a little insane in the brain.

Facing a weakness or a flaw in myself is not my strong suit.  I like being good at stuff.  Moreover, I like being awesome at stuff.  But I don’t really want anybody to know because I think that being undercover awesome is way cooler.  Plus, fewer people will ask you to serve on the PTA if they think you suck.  So I point out my flaws every chance I get.  But in my heart, I know I am a good mom and a good person.  If I am truly content and confident, then I do not feel the need to shout my own accolades from the rooftops.

Then I go and do something that is making my kids cry and not speak to me and creating trust issues and possibly damaging them permanently, and I feel so very, very bad.  No more undercover awesome.  Just bad, bad mommy.  And of course I do feel the need to shout this from the rooftops.  I am embarrassed.  I am sorry.  I am flawed.

But I will not beat myself up over this forever.  I made the decision to return the puppies so soon because they will have a much better chance of being adopted permanently when they are young.  They are lab mixes and people love labs.  I also found some comfort in the dogs’ excitement when they were reunited with their litter mates back at the foster mom’s house.  I believe that it is much better for me to make this decision now, rather than to keep them and change my mind a few weeks down the line, or even to keep them forever but be resentful.

By the way, I can not tell you how many people admitted to me over the past two days that they don’t really like their dogs.  I have talked to so many people who said (now you tell me?) that they want to give away their dogs, that their dogs scare them, or that they just wish they didn’t have them anymore.  One friend even called her dog an asshole (mainly because he bit another friend on the butt when they were out walking).  I am sure none of these people would ever intentionally hurt their dogs.  But I definitely found it very interesting to hear about this secret side of the dog coin.

Now, I also know just as many – if not more – people who have dogs and love them like they are their own children.  Others have told me how their dog(s) complete their families.  I just saw last night on Dance Moms that Abby Lee Miller was thinking about having her three-weeks dead dog stuffed so she could keep it with her forever.  That is some serious dog love right there.  I get it, but I just don’t feel it myself.

So I sit here with my broken heart and my broken awesomeness, thinking about everything that has just happened.  I will get over it.  And I believe that the kids will eventually get over it too.  Sheepdog has been wonderfully supportive of me and my craziness.  Everybody will have to heal in their own way.

I did ask the dog foster mom to put my name on the Adoption No-Fly list, just to protect me from myself in a couple of years when I have forgotten this and again decide that I have overcome my fears and think that getting a dog will surely be a good plan.  She was so understanding and (too) kind to me when she told me one last thing before I left the puppies with her yesterday.  She said when she first met me she came home and told her husband that she wished that she had someone like me as her neighbor.  She thought I was strong and confident, but that I seemed fun and funny at the same time.  And then she added that she noticed right then that my family was already complete.  I never really thought about it until she pointed it out to me, but apparently I don’t need dogs to make our family whole.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Spring Broken

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Last week was the kids’ Spring Break.  Spring Break for us is nine glorious days of no school, no activities, no alarms, no packing lunches, no carpools… nothing.  It is the absolute antithesis of our normal existence.  In the past we have traveled nearby over Spring Break (Dollywood and the indoor water parks of Sevierville, TN, anyone?), but the last few years we opted to stay home and enjoy a more relaxing time off.  The awesomeness is compounded by the fact that everyone else migrates to the beaches and this place becomes a virtual ghost town.

And now that the kids are older, I don’t have to entertain them every second of every minute of every day.  They can actually entertain themselves.  Which makes all of the nothing that much more something.  And by “entertain themselves,” I mean constant bickering, which I have come to believe that they will never outgrow.  Whatever, as long as they leave me alone.

Now, for those of you who have been following my crazy stories from the beginning, you may recall that despite my attempts to be a better human being, I Suck at Dogs.  But I am also very quick to forget things, which I blame on all of these pregnancies and resultant children that have permanently addled my brain.  The same kids who are constantly begging for us to get a dog.  Day and night, night and day.  Every birthday or Christmas or random Tuesday, the number one thing on their wish list is a family dog.  And I know that they think we are terrible, horrible parents because we never did it.  But still, Sheepdog and I did not get them a dog.

Instead, we got them two.

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“Y’all gon’ make me lose my mind, up in here, up in here.” – DMX (from their album, “…And Then There Was X.”
But how perfect would it have been if it came from their record “Year of the Dog… Again?”
I know, right?

Their mother was rescued and when they had her on the table to spay her, they realized that she was pregnant.  She delivered five pups (four boys and a girl, all black with white markings except for one of the boys) just a few days later.  We met them when they were just under three weeks old and have been going to visit every weekend for the past six weeks.  We watched them grow and play with their litter mates and learn from their mama.  Incidentally, she and I were quite simpatico because we were both always bitching about having five kids who always wanted or needed something from us.  Solidarity, sister.

We were originally drawn to the girl puppy, but she ended up acting all uppity when we visited her.  I was much more drawn to two of the boys.  We went back and forth on the idea of one puppy versus two, but we opted for the double whammy mainly because people told us that they would keep each other company.  We also figured that, with our five kids, we would need more dogs to go around.  I know what you’re thinking… why not just get one for each?  But I emphatically drew the line at two.

They had to stay with their mom while they nursed and foster mom until they got neutered, which was last Thursday.  The rules of the rescue organization state that they could come live with us once they had a successful recovery from surgery.  So yesterday, on our last day of Spring Break, we all hopped into our XL vehicle, loaded a giant dog crate in the back, and headed over to the Chattahoochee River Club to pick up the newest members of our family.

And now, 24 hours later, with the kids all off at school and Sheepdog out of town all week for business, I am sitting here thinking, “What in the world did I get myself into?”  In my heart I know that we got these dogs because the experience will teach the kids responsibility and promote selflessness and there is nothing sweeter than a child and his or her dog(s).  But in my mind… let’s just say that it is very scary in there.  I am feeling anxious and overwhelmed and again like there is something wrong with me that I freak out when animals are actually living under my roof, despite my best efforts to be the willow.  I am definitely feeling much more like an unwavering oak.  Actually, it is kind of easy to feel like any kind of tree since two very active puppies are constantly peeing and pooping on me.

There is something seriously wrong with me.  I have decided that I am Spring Broken.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Put ‘Em On the Glass

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I like Monday mornings.  I’m not being sarcastic.  Mondays are my “get it done/ bang it out” days… laundry, grocery shopping, a fast workout, appointments.  I figure I’ll have one long, crappy day that is filled with as many of the sucky chores as I can cram in.  Then, later in the week I can do the fun stuff… bake, visit with a friend, watch a Kevin Smith movie marathon, nap, maybe post a blog or two.

Sheepdog always calls me to chat on Mondays and I’m all like, “Why do you keep calling me… I’m BUSY!”  Plus, we just spent the whole weekend together.  What the hell else could we have to talk about?  I like doing stuff together on the weekends, with the kids or without, but the OCD in me really likes it when Monday morning rolls around and Sheepdog has pedaled his way down the street and the kids are all out the door and I can get down to brass tacks with my To-Do list.  I’m always slow to start on Mondays, but once I get going, I am a machine.

Early this morning Kid D and Kid E had crawled into bed with me to cuddle.  We still had a half an hour before we needed to start the day so I was still trying to actually sleep, but the boys were having none of that.  Kid E was perfecting his explosion sound effects (his latest hobby) and Kid D was having a full-on, all-parties-have-to-participate conversation.

“How was your sleep, Mom?”

“Mmmmmm.”

“What does that even mean?  Are you hungry, or still sleeping?  It is supposed to rain today.  80 percent chance, according to The Weather Channel.  My game will probably be canceled.  We are supposed to play the Nationals again.  They are really, really good.  We have had, like, 5 games with the Nationals get rescheduled because of bad weather already this season.  I don’t know how we’re going to make them all up.  Dad and I had a really great practice yesterday.  I was working on my hitting and he kept yelling at me and throwing things at me so I would be distracted.  But I did a good job staying focused.  Did you hear that new song by Muse yet?  I heard it on the radio and I really like it.  Are you going to buy it on iTunes?  You should and then I can download it.  Can you do that for me?  Can you do it today, so you don’t forget?  What else are you doing today?”

“Shhhhblammm!” goes Kid E.

I slowly and reluctantly began to wake up.  And I remembered that it was “bang it out” day and I had an appointment on my schedule first thing this morning.  So, without much thought, I answered the chatty kid.

“I have a doctor’s appointment early this morning.”

“What for?”  Of course.

“Well, it is just an annual exam.”

“Exam of what?”  Nosy bastard.  I’m still tired and I have a lot to do today and I’m not in the mood to play 20 Questions.  I’m just going to give it to him straight.

“Technically, it is of my boobies.”  That’ll shut him up, if only because he’ll be giggling for the next ten minutes.

“Shhhblammm!  Shhhblammm!  Shhhblammm!” goes Kid E again, and then he chimes in, “What about your boobies?”  He joins his brother in fits of laughter.

“All right, gentlemen.  That’s enough.  I am going to the doctor to have them make sure that my boobies are healthy.  It is something that every woman should do every year.  Eat right, exercise and get your girl parts and boobies checked.”

“Are they checking your boobies for milk?”  Smartass.

“No, Mr. Smartypants.  These boobies no longer make milk.”

Kid E goes back to sound effect production, but Kid D is contemplative.  I can tell his mind is back to working overtime.  And then he cracks a smile as he turns to inform his little brother.

“Oh, I get it.  They’re checking to make sure that her milk hasn’t turned into cheese!”

Shhhblammm, indeed.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

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Take Me Out to the Ball

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

This weekend Sheepdog and I went out.  On a date.  To a Ball.

I know, I know.  How did a girl who is – by conscious choice – perpetually in flip-flops and sweatpants, and usually in bed by 8:45 on Saturday nights, end up at a fancy-schmancy ball?  So weird and just wrong, am I right?  Well…

Cinderella’s shoes for The Ball. Sheepdog approved.

Earlier last year I was talking to my dad about travel.  He and my mom are fortunate in that they go on a lot of trips throughout the year.  But one of the things that drives him crazy is the inefficiency of commercial airports and airlines.  Well, duh.  Flying sucks nowadays.  Gone are the days when everyone is all dressed up in the airport like they are straight off the set of Mad Men.  These days you are more likely to see people in their actual pajamas than you are people in suits.  It is no wonder that we are treated like idiot cattle and consider it a “good flight” if we don’t have to sit in our teeny, tiny seat next to somebody who needs more than one seatbelt extender (more often than not this is also the person who has the very questionable showering habits) and/ or we didn’t have to hang out on the runway or tarmac with only recycled air for countless hours waiting for fill-in-the-blank (clearance to take off, repair of the broken filangie, the pilot to sober up, blah blah blah).  So, half joking but half seriously, I suggested that he look into private planes.

One thing that I will tell you about my dad is that he is a big talker.  Not that he doesn’t often deliver, mind you, but he sure does like to make grandiose plans, especially around cocktail hour.  And only about 17% of those plans actually come to fruition.  For example, just last year he brought up the idea of “The Epic Trip,” involving him and my mom, me and my three sisters, and our husbands.  He sent out an email to all of us that explained how he wanted to go somewhere and do something truly meaningful together, so he asked us to submit ideas and wish lists.  The girls dreamed of huts in Bali, the boys named world class golf resorts, and Sheepdog wanted us to work on a dude ranch in Montana.  The best idea came from the Other Rob Fisher (long story short, my dad always accidentally uses a bogus email that he thinks is for my brother-in-law, but in fact belongs to a really funny guy with the same name who always comes up with awesome responses to our group missives, without acknowledging that he is not actually Our Rob Fisher – it can sometimes take a while for anybody to catch on), who suggested we should go surfing in South Korea and he attached an article like this one to the email:

Surfing in South Korea (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Anyway, I looked into flying on private jets.  What I discovered was a whole new world of luxury and lavishness that I had never before allowed myself to fantasize about.  But after peeking behind that curtain, I was all about it.  And from what I have heard from those who have flown this way before, it is like crack.  You will never want to go back to Hartsfield-Jackson or Spirit Airlines again, sister.

So I reached out to a couple of companies on my dad’s behalf.  We went back and forth for a while and my dad and I finally got our schedules to mesh and we went to a meeting a few weeks ago with a rep from one of the best.  And I think the big talker actually got excited about the idea of a private plane.  We will see once the quote comes back.  But in the meantime…

The rep called me last week to see if I (or my dad, more importantly) had any questions.  I actually did, so I met with him one more time.  He also mentioned that he had two extra tickets for a black tie event and asked if Sheepdog and I would be interested in attending, along with him and his wife.  They also have a crap-ton of kids, like us, so he figured us moms would be all excited about getting dressed up and not having to take care of them, if only for a few hours.

Normally, I would make up some excuse as to why we were unavailable, but I recently made a promise to myself that I would try new things.  I vowed to go out of my comfort zone and be open to new people and experience different adventures.  So far, all I have done is use a telephone number instead of a website, when available, to deal with customer service issues.  And I thought I was making grand strides!  Before I could even control myself on the telephone, I blurted out that we would love to attend The Ball with them.  Gasp.

We ended up having a really fun night.  In typical fashion, I wanted to back out around 4PM.  Sheepdog was sick with a cold, the boys did not want us to leave them, and it started raining buckets.  But I dragged my sorry butt into the shower and proceeded to get dolled up (hair AND makeup… I know!).  Sheepdog put on his tuxedo (he looks fiiiine in a tuxedo, by the way – more incentive for me), and off we went.  The Ball was to benefit the American Heart Association, so there was a silent auction and dinner then a live auction.  It was really fun to watch as people raised their paddles to spend thousands of dollars in support of a great cause (and a trip to Hawaii).  We really enjoyed the rep and his wife too.

One of the funnest moments of the night for me was seeing that another woman had on the same dress as I did.  I pointed it out to Sheepdog and he tried to make me feel better by saying hers was “more purple” or something, but there was no denying it.  I bought it off the rack closest to the cash register at Macy’s, for goodness’ sake, (yeah, I’ve never been much of a shopper) so what did I expect?  I honestly did not care, but thought it would be fabulous if Sheepdog ever so subtly took a picture at The Ball of me and the woman “together.”

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Who Wore it Better?

Thus confirming that, despite even my good-hearted attempts to evolve as a person and try new things, you still can’t take me anywhere.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Put ‘Em Up

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I got in a fight and lost.  Against the Sun.

I made an appointment with my dermatologist to have her look at a little thing on my foot back in late February or early March, but when I returned from Cabo I had a tan.  I didn’t want my dermatologist to think that I was some kind of irresponsible sun worshiper, so I canceled the appointment.

Then came the summertime, and I was an irresponsible sun worshipper.  I took the kids to the pool or the beach regularly and, while I sprayed their little backs and fronts and ears and noses and even scalps with hundreds of dollars worth of “the really good stuff,” I will admit that there were some days when I forgot to slather it on my own cheeks.

Summer ended.  My tan faded.  It crossed my mind once or twice to make another appointment with the dermatologist, but other things came up which required my attention.  It was laundry day or dinnertime or someone needed new socks or a new hairbrush or it was someone’s birthday or soccer game or book fair.

That’s weird… “book fair.”  Why did “book fair” just come to the forefront of my consciousness?  Wait a minute.  What day is this?  Oh, crap!  What time is it?  I was supposed to be at the book fair for Kid D ten minutes ago.  See what I mean about the other things taking over?

OK, I’m back.  I barely made it to the media center before his class was shipped out.  When I found him, Kid D was just wandering around with his wish list, looking abandoned and sad.  But it was nothing a few baseball books couldn’t cure.

So I finally got around to making (and going to) an appointment with the dermatologist on Monday.  She told me that my foot thing was nothing and then she did an all over body scan.  While she was staring at my cheek I asked, “Oh, so you like my age spot, do you?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, that’s no age spot…” she responded as she blasted my face with her evil freeze bottle.

Mama said knock you out.

So now I have a nasty cut on my cheek that will take some time to heal.  In the meantime, I am wearing a band-aid over it because it makes me look more like a tough boxer than a dumb sun bunny.  I might even keep the Everlast glove on while I run my errands.  What?  Don’t you judge me.

The doctor confirmed that I am still allowed to go to Cabo in February.  And in the summer I can still go to the pool and the beach too.  I just need to be extra vigilant about anything new or interesting, and I have to remember to put the good stuff on me.  Every single time.

Speaking of time, take some right now and make your own appointment.  Don’t brush me off.

Wait.  ”Brush.”  Somebody said something about a brush this morning.  Oh yeah, Kid B broke hers and she needs a new one.  I’ll go to the store right now, I just need to find my boxing glove first.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Over the (Hawk) Hill

Posted on by Stacy Swiger
Last Thursday I had some kind of unholy, unprecedented strain of PMS.  All five of the kids were ganging up on me by playing a rousing game of Who Can Get On Mommy’s Very Last Nerve?  So when Sheepdog came home from work and (uncharacteristically) asked, “What’s for dinner and when’ll it be ready?” before even saying hello, I felt totally justified in telling him that I wanted “to hit (him) very hard in the face with a(n effing) shovel.”  Obviously, I needed a break.  The very next morning I hopped on a plane to Philadelphia.  We were all very pleased that I got away for a bit.
 

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When I was a senior in high school I did what almost everyone else was doing and I applied to get into college.  Three colleges, to be exact.  I was smart, involved and had yet to experience any hard slaps-in-the-face from life.  I was Miss Absecon 1987 and Holy Spirit’s homecoming queen, for goodness’ sake.  So I was in utter disbelief and completely devastated when I received thin envelopes from all three schools telling me no, no and wait.  It was April of my senior year and all I could say when asked where I was going in the fall was, “I honestly don’t know.”

I remember going in to see my school guidance counselor in a daze and asking what I was supposed to do at that point.  He mentioned a small school on City Line Avenue in Philadelphia called St. Joseph’s University.  I had not heard of it before, but my grades and SAT scores were on track to allow me admittance there.  I do not recall the administrative details that followed, but I do know that my parents moved me into a college dorm up on Hawk Hill as that summer drew to an end.

But even with my very own spot in the SJU Class of 1992, it turns out that I still was not sure of where I was going.  I spent the next two years floundering.  I went to parties and bars, but not many classes.  I changed my major and therefore my schedule countless times.  I made stupid and sometimes dangerous choices.  I got my heart broken more than once.  Looking back on my freshman and sophomore years at St. Joe’s, I recall a general sense of sadness and isolation, which was made even worse by my belief that I was surrounded by so many people who all seemed to be having the time of their lives.

My parents saw that I was not happy and they finally convinced me to come back home (a fate worse than death at the time!).  I would work and take classes at a local college in order to bring up my GPA.  Then I could reapply to another school or schools, and eventually earn a degree.  That is how I ended up at West Virginia University as a transfer student in the Fall of 1990.  I met Sheepdog there after just a few weeks.

Short Aside… Yes, WVU was a giant party school back then (and still officially is, according to Princeton Review), but I had thankfully gotten most of it out of my system by the time I moved to Morgantown.  Note that I said most, not all.  Now that’s a true story.

After years of ruminating (and some good, old-fashioned therapy), I look back on my first years of higher education with a smile.  It was the time when I walked on to the varsity cheerleading squad for the basketball team and I got to cheer on national television and travel all over the East Coast to other schools in the Atlantic 10.  It was when I learned that accounting was definitely not my thing, but english and eventually journalism were.  It was when I learned how I didn’t want to be treated by boys, and therefore what I did eventually want from a partner in life.  Most importantly, it was the time when I learned what I did and did not like about myself.  It was where I learned that having a rhinestone crown placed on your head doesn’t mean jack, so I needed to buckle down and start working for what I wanted.  It was where I made friends for life, because college years can be so intense that bonds are forged deeper and stronger than during any other experience.

This past weekend I traveled back to City Line Avenue for Hawktoberfest 2012 and to celebrate the passage of 20 years since the Class of 1992 had been handed their sheepskins.  Originally I booked my plane ticket and hotel room because it was an excuse to spend time with friends who now live scattered all over and I rarely get to see (save for the occasional wedding or funeral or milestone birthday celebration in the Dominican Republic), but it turned out to be so much more than that for me.

I saw people who I hadn’t seen in decades.  I listened to the stories of how their lives had played out, as well as their plans for the future.  I heard the classic tales again, but I also listened to new ones that I never knew about.  One girlfriend teased, saying that I was quite the social butterfly… talking to absolutely everyone, but that was the best part of the experience for me.  We went out to dinner and shared so many memories and bottles of wine.  We played softball on the incredible new field.  We posed for pictures in front of our old dorms.  We tailgated (I know, I know… how do you tailgate without a football team?) and gossiped and laughed.  I laughed until I was hoarse.  It was very, very good.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. This was taken just before 2AM on 54th Street.

On Sunday, we roused our sad, over the hill selves out of bed with lots and lots of coffee.  After we checked out of the hotel, a few of us who had later flights walked around the campus.  It is so much bigger now, with all of the new buildings and dorms and fields, but it is still the same in so many ways.  It was awkward but comfortable at the same time.  I had to catch my breath several times as I walked through the old Fieldhouse (now Hagan Arena) and down past Finnesy Field.  I actually had tears in my eyes as I went from Lafarge to the Chapel and the old Newmann Hall and then crossed the foot bridge to McShane.  They fell silently down my cheeks as I walked down the tree-lined Lapsley Lane to the most magnificent view of Barbelin Tower.

What’s magis? It’s a Jesuit principle that underlies everything we do at Saint Joseph’s University. It inspires us to think a little broader, dig a little deeper, and work a little harder. More simply put, magis calls us to live greater.

The tears were few but they were powerful and cathartic.  I felt such peace and comfort in knowing that St. Joe’s was the first of many steps in bringing me to where I am in my life today.  It defined me, both good and bad.  And it feels so awesome to own that.

I left Hawk Hill feeling light and happy, albeit a little old.  I left with renewed friendships and some new Facebook friends.  I left with a memory card full of photographs.  But mostly I left with a palpable gratitude for the life I have now and the people who are in it.  It never ceases to amaze me how life twists and turns, takes us up and down the hills and sometimes even mountains, and lands us where we are right at this moment.

Sometimes we just need to be reminded.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Say It! Say It! Say It!

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have said this before, but it bears repeating…

Sometimes I just can’t control my own ornery.

I try (some days I try harder than others) to act civilized and “normal,” but there are times when I just let it all hang out simply because it feels good.  Plus, it makes me feel closer to (Ma) Kettle.  That’s my mom’s mom who died from cancer two years ago.  She was the Queen of Letting Your Freak Run Around Unchecked and Unfiltered.  Admittedly, she could be totally embarrassing in public but that woman was fun and funny as hell.  And I sure do miss her.

“If you don’t like it, you can go shit in your hat!”

Anyway, I was at my home away from home the grocery store last week stocking up on items I buy in bulk that don’t fit in the cart during regular orders (10 or so cases of flavored seltzer water, a mega-pack of toilet paper and paper towels, 2-for-1 bottles of vitamins, multiple giant bottles of wine… essentials for the apocalypse).  I packed my cart to the brim and I headed to the checkout.  Being the frequent flyer that I am at this store (back in college a dive bar called Cavanaugh’s was my Cheers, now-a-days the ghetto Kroger is where everybody knows my name… sigh), someone scrambled to open a lane just for me.

I actually did not recognize the clerk who was giving me the red carpet treatment.  He was definitely new.  But he ran his lane with mad skill and had me through in a jiffy.  As I was whipping out my credit card and preparing to swipe it he told me to hold up, as his register was spitting stuff out like it was a married Jewish girl.

“Ooooh!  You got a lot of coupons today,” said the newbie.

“Oh yeah?  Anything I can use right now?”  I asked, unimpressed unless there was.

He examined the paper strip with feigned intensity.  ”Mmmmm… I don’t really know you (as he looks back at all the wine and TP) but you seem like you would probably buy Lunchables.  And you’re a girl, so you can definitely use this last one for… you know.”

Insulted by his insinuation yet intrigued by his phrasing, I push back.  ”I know what?”

I look at the coupon that I now presume is covered in anthrax because this guy won’t even touch it with his bare hands.  It is a coupon for tampons.  Harmless, little cotton tampons.  And just the thought of them is freaking this guy out.  My ornery is just begging to come out and play.

“Tampons,”  I say boldly.  ”Can’t you even say the word?  Tampons, tampons, tampons.”  My voice is getting louder.  Several nearby heads turn in the direction of our lane.  ”It is 2012.  You are a grown-ass man.  You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper-yell.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh!  You don’t have to say it!” he whisper-whispers back at me as his face turns the color of a baboon’s butt.  ”Stop saying that word!”

I figure that I have embarrassed him just enough to retaliate for the pre-packaged-kids’-lunch-box-product comment, but I insist on adding one more thing.  ”So you’re single, right?  (He glares back at me but I see from his reaction that I am correct)  Well, you will never get a real, live girlfriend if you can’t even say the word ‘tampon’ out loud.  So here’s your homework for today… when you get done your shift you’re gonna get in your car and drive home.  I want you to say the word ‘tampon’ over and over and over for the entire trip.  Tampon, tampon, tampon, tampon.  It will be good for you.”

I then go out into the parking lot and unload my cart full of goodies.  During my own car ride home I proceed to chant not only “tampon, tampon, tampon” but also “penis, penis, penis” and “vagina, vagina, vagina” for good measure.  I like to keep my reflexes sharp, you know.

When I got home I unloaded the car and went upstairs to take a shower before I started making dinner.  Ironically enough, it was then that I realized that Aunt Flo had come for her annoying monthly visit.  And guess what was missing from my bathroom cabinet?

I wish this post was in color so I could end it with a big red period.  More than that, I wish I had used that stupid coupon.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…