I’m pretty sure that I should apologize for this post because the topics are slightly um…nasty, slutty, sexy, and taboo-ish. I can’t help it. Apparently those things are what I am. Sue me.
Okay first off – I’m not even being funny when I ask you this question. WITHOUT googling it – do any of you know what a “hat trick” is or means? For realz. I’m asking. I swear to God if everyone knows and I’m the only who doesn’t – I’m going to cry.
50 bazillion times yesterday in emails and then in person Rambo kept giving me the eye and grabbing me and saying, “Baby – are we gonna go for the hat trick tonight?”
Now – so as not to appear as though I’m the dumber one in this relationship…I played along for a while and then later I couldn’t help it and I asked, “What the holy hell is a hat trick? I don’t get it?! What does that even mean?”
F*cking technology. Everyone’s answer to everything is “google it”. Rambo says it’s a hockey term. (I wouldn’t know – I still haven’t googled it.) He was using it in the terms of “are we going for 3 days in a row – you know, as in the hat trick?”
NO I DON’T KNOW. I still don’t get it. And now he thinks I’m stupid.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Moving on. This morning as I was dutifully performing my Mother of the Year tasks and making my 6 year old child a delicious packed lunch, she noticed a box of tampons on the counter that I hadn’t put away yet. (And no – please do not focus on the fact that I have a box of tampons out on my counter. Get over it. I was busy.)
She says to me, “Mom, what are these for? Are these to use so that you don’t pee your pants while you sleep at night?”
Shit. She’s 6 people. This is not the time for the talk. Do I just agree, lie and move on or what?
I said, “Those are for big girls. You don’t have to care until you are older.” Then I promptly moved on to “fruit roll up or rice krispie treat?”
Saved by sugar.
This would be the same child who last night learned a new word – courtesy of yours truly. Again – mother of the year. God – I can’t believe I’m typing this. So many of you are going to want to call the authorities.
Last night we were all having fun. Being idiots. The usual. Tickling the crap out of one or the other of them. Watching our favorite shows. Laughing our asses off over something one of us said. I’m at my computer because everyone is on their way to bed and it’s time to start winding down - after I’ve thrown the 6 year old over my shoulders with her head hanging towards the floor giggling her tush off - into bed.
Rambo is yelling in his goofiest voice at me, “Do not stimulate the children before bed MOMMY!”
Seriously – we’re disfunctional. And I can’t stop laughing as I sit down at my computer and I randomly sing, “Watermelon is a pecker.”
And immediately realize – shitballs – pecker is not such a good word to call the 11 year old. She disagrees.
She literally falls on the ground she’s laughing so hard. Saying over and over, “Mom called me a pecker.”
I say it just slipped out and I should not have said that.
Meanwhile – we hear in the tiniest little voice coming from Banana’s bedroom – her singing her newest song.
“Watermelon is a pecker. Watermelon is a pecker.”
Rambo looks at me and says, “Nice. OMG – she’s going to say that at school now.” While he laughs his ass off.
Seriously people – I know it’s wrong but I’ve never heard the work pecker sound so cute in all my life. Little bitty voice, little bitty lips mouthing the word…having absolutely no idea what she was saying…giggling. I couldn’t even yell at her. Mostly because it was my fault.
Okay – fine. ALL my fault.
I suck. And I convince Banana that “pecker” is an inappropriate word and she must never repeat it. Which is almost like convincing her that asparagus tastes like Snickers.
Everyone settles down – and I get to bed – and you all know what’s coming right?
The f*cking hat trick talk again.
Not gonna happen. Not until I google it anyway. And not until I ask every blogger I know if any of them have ever heard of a damn hat trick ever before.
By the time we finish our conversation – the 6 year old has now come into our room – with her hands on her hips and shouts, “Parents. I am trying to sleep. Could you quiet down?”
Yup – no problem. We're sorry - little Queen.
I got him back for making me appear stupid anyway – some time in the wee hours of the morning. You see, I was cold. Frozen. Most of all – my nose was frozen. I wasn’t about to cover my whole head with a blanket because that would be what a normal person would do – so I grabbed Rambo’s hand and covered my nose with it until it got warm.
This morning my very first email from him said:
“I hope that your nose is still warmed up.”
Hmmm. Oops. I guess I woke him up.
This morning on the way to work I thought about “our night”. And call me a sap if you want to BUT it brings tears to my eyes.
Because it’s like that every day. It’s special every damn day.
Last night was a Monday. We went grocery shopping as a family and I walked the aisles holding Banana’s hand picking out yogurt flavors. I’d look back and I’d see Rambo discussing pizza kinds with Watermelon after he randomly put his arms around her shoulders in the frozen section before she was telling him about her day.
At one point I turned the corner in the toy aisle and saw Watermelon catch a bouncing ball Rambo had decided to throw at her….she was trying not to laugh and get caught by me because they both knew I’d tell them to knock it off.
We got home and ate supper from KFC and chatted about our day.
Then we all piled up literally – on the couch. Like a bunch of 10 year olds at one point we had “who can push who off the couch the fastest” competition. And other moments I’d look over at Banana with her stuffed animal shoved up so close to me I couldn’t move and I’d kiss her on the cheek and she’d just smile without saying a word.
After finishing her homework, the 11 year old randomly decided she felt left out so she piled in between Rambo and I.
Never asking permission. Never being scared to just flop down between her parents.
She just did it – without hesitation.
Later I carry one goofily to bed and tuck her in as Rambo tucks in the other one. And I literally see two little girls go to bed – smiling.
Do not think that ever for a moment those instances pass by me without a twinge of bitter sweetness. Or that I take those moments for granted.
I love and cherish the moments but a part of own little girl’s heart will always feel broken. I was never tucked in. Never smiled as I went to bed. Usually the night’s events before were filled with silence. Fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. No talking or hugging or God forbid laughing. No feeling loved. No goofing off and forgetting everything but love.
It never gets old. The way Rambo is with my girls.
Every single time I see them randomly hug him or talk to him or jump into his arms or act like an idiot with him – I pray and hope a part of the little girl broken in me heals. And I pray a part of Rambo who felt like I did as a child heals too. I hope a part of the adult Rambo who sees nothing but evil in inmates every day remembers the true good in life.
I didn’t know laughter with a father. I didn’t know being embraced by a mother or father. I didn’t know not fearing a father and his reaction. I didn’t know being loved by a father. I didn’t know the availability of a father.
I knew a man. Always in sight – but always out of my reach.
And I once knew a little girl who felt the burden of needing him and of knowing I was never enough to make him change.
And every single day of my adult life – I will know two little girls who will never feel what I did. Ever.
Consider the cycle broken.
Now if only I could erase the pain…every time I see in my own husband - acting as a father – what could have been for me.