Ramblings of a Stay-at-Home-Mom

I scrubbed dried shit out of my dog’s butthole fur for over an hour yesterday. I’m telling you this because nobody noticed (except for my dog, I’m sure). Not my daughters, not my mailman, certainly not my husband. Nobody ever notices.

It may seem as though I'm asking for accolades for my daily mom duties; acknowledgment that we do in fact get shit done. And that would be correct. Maybe I'm tired of my metaphorical stay-at-home-mom desk being absent of those fancy glass awards they hand out at "real" jobs: 'Most Innovative 2021.' 'Best in Sales 2004.' I know it doesn't take much brain-power to pull out my dog's dingleberries, but a simple, "Hey, the dog's butt is looking particularly clean today" would go a long way for me.

Matt and my brother-in-law went to the Ryder Cup last weekend, because, well, of course they did. And per usual, I planned a weekend of fun activities for the kids and my nephews that included pumpkin painting and playgrounds and destroying my house.

On Saturday, we loaded everyone into my car and headed to the pumpkin patch. My littlest nephew gave us some problems that day. He was the whiniest he's ever been and we couldn't seem to figure out the cause. I assumed maybe he's just not a pumpkin spice and everything autumn kind of dude, but fast forward to Sunday and a call from my sister: he's got the dreaded Hand, Foot, and Mouth virus.

Most people would say, "Awww, poor little guy. Hope he feels better soon." But most people aren't stay-at-home-moms with a Las Vegas trip coming up in ten days that they've planned with their best friends for a year now. Most people also don't have OCD.

This has consumed me. I've been researching Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease like a mad scientist. I think I may have found the end of the Internet. And in case you're wondering my level of exposure, my nephew clung to me all weekend like a drooling koala bear. I kissed those fat, slobbery cheeks and stuck french fries in his chubby wet hands. I was as exposed as a Vegas showgirl. (How DO they get those booby tassels to swing like that? Fascinating.)

The adult cases I've found of HFM disease sound horrifying: hands and feet so painful that one cannot even walk. How am I supposed to stumble around Vegas in my new size twelve, wide-width stilettos? Can I crawl from slot machine to slot machine? And will my blistered fingers be able to hit max bet at a fast enough pace to blow through my budget on night one?

I know that I make this sound light-hearted and silly, but OCD is devastating: it's not the casual, "Oh, I'm so OCD about little Benjamin's lego bin" or Susie making her hangers all face in the same direction. It's an actual chemical imbalance; a monster in my mind.

Last month I feared touching my daughter's tiny frog aquarium (thanks to my mom for that disgusting gift) because one of the little dwarf frogs had a white cotton substance growing from its body. After much research, I came to a horrific realization: there was a fungus among us. 

Someone asked me the other day what it felt like to have OCD. I’ve been thinking about that question. Simply put, it’s like having one of those old CD Walkmans jammed inside your brain and the same horrible song just keeps skipping and skipping. And it's not a delightful Britney Spears' ditty. It's Nickelback. Or Creed. 

There’s no reprieve; just the same thought over and over on repeat. It’s utter exhaustion; a marathon in my brain with no finish line in sight.

I've coped through it all these years with counseling, Prozac, humor, and buttercream icing. Prior to my hand-foot-mouth exposure of all exposures, I went on one of my super smart crash diets to fit into my pre-selected Vegas wardrobe that somehow shrunk in my closet these past few months. Ten days with no carbs and I successfully dropped a quick five pounds. Here I come Vegas: mama is ready to rummmble.

And then I popped into a bakery. I was in Springfield yesterday morning purchasing a cookie cake for our neighbors who are moving, and I convinced myself I had enough self-control to simply buy this one dessert and leave (hahahahahahahaha). 

I walked into that cake shop, and I swear the smell of that buttercream icing had me floating over to the display counter like some magic potion. 

The lady at the register asked me if I wanted anything written in icing on my second cookie cake, and I paused for a moment until deciding that "Best Dingleberry Picker 2021" simply wouldn't fit.

I've always wanted to be a writer. But I'm not writing. Instead, I'm sitting in a parking lot and staring at a tree while eating my feelings and paranoias and inadequacies; a sugary cure for my OCD and stay-at-home-mom exhaustion. Wait. Is that a blister that just appeared on the palm of my hand? False alarm. It's a red sprinkle.

I went home and cleaned up the kitchen. I put dinner in the oven and changed the laundry for the third time that day. I disinfected the toys in case Barbie contracted Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease, and I looked around to see that despite my efforts, the house still looked the exact same. I then finished that damn cookie cake like the champion I am, and I casually tossed the empty container in the trash can. I didn't even bother hiding the evidence. It's not like anyone would notice.

Cookies and Grace

I wore my daughter's disposable mask the other day without realizing she had previously used it to blow her nose. That was a first. 

I feel like we've all had a year of 'firsts', if you will: the first time wearing a mask to a restaurant; the first time having my temperature checked to enter a building; the first time calling poison control on myself.

This one is actually a very simple story----it could happen to the best of us (it did; I'm the best). My mom had sugar cookies cooling on a cookie rack and next to them were five different tubes of gel icing. 

I selected the neon pink tube for my mostly cooled cookie, and since no one was watching and therefore could not judge me, I used the entire tube of icing. The first bite was kind of funky. The second and third were no better. I considered tossing the last bite into the trash, but I don't quit on cookies because they've never quit on me.  

Ok, that was officially the grossest icing I've ever consumed.  I hurried to the other room to complain to my mom about her bogus Betty Crocker purchase, but she took the empty tube from my hand and shook her head in confusion.  "This is food coloring." 

Dammit. 

I know that food coloring is food grade and therefore edible, of course, but I ate the whole concentrated tube, ya'll. My mouth started feeling numb. It was also hot pink. My tongue looked like a Lisa Frank eraser. 

The lady with Poison Control was gracious but confused. "So you took just one bite of the cookie with food coloring, right?" she asked. 

"Well, no, mam, I pushed through and finished it."

She humored me for a moment before telling me I would be fine. I think about it now and laugh. It's funny. I'm funny. I'm also a binge eater. That's not always so funny.

My life feels out of control sometimes. It's felt pretty much out of control this entire pandemic, and so I cope with carbohydrates. I was so proud of myself last winter (pre-pandemic). I ate a bunch of nasty, dry protein bars and tasteless health shakes and found myself 32 pounds lighter. My clothes fit like they were supposed to fit. I felt more confident. I developed a bit of a peacock strut. 

Then the whole world went to shit. This past year was incredibly trying for my mental health: fear, anxiety, boredom, sadness, uncertainty. Suddenly, egg whites weren't cutting it.

Not surprisingly, I've put back on almost all that weight I worked so hard to lose. I did attempt a juice cleanse a couple of weeks ago, but one day into the diet, I remembered that pizza existed, and so there went that overpriced idea. 

Each day I tell myself that THIS is the day I will start eating better, yet each day comes and goes and makes a liar out of me. That motivation I had last winter is all but gone, and here I am, stuck in this caloric rut with a fading hot pink tongue and a pile of dirty laundry. 

The days can be so impossibly long as a stay-at-home mom. They're even longer in quarantine. 

My father tested positive for Covid back in November (he had a mild case, thank God), but since we'd all been exposed, the kids were stuck remote learning for a fourteen day quarantine. Even two negative tests were not enough to free us. Not leaving the house for two straight weeks made me do some crazy sh*t. Case in point:

Luckily for you, our quarantine was up before I had the chance to recreate her red catsuit video. Meow. 

My daughter came home from school the other day and asked me if it was always going to be like this--- the wearing masks and keeping a distance from her friends at school. I could see a genuine sadness in her eyes, and my heart broke for her.  For once, I wasn't going to tell her to suck it up. I didn't remind her how good we've got it; that we're still incredibly blessed. She knows all that. But this is her reality. She's allowed to mourn it. 

"It's not supposed to be like this," I told her. "And I'm sorry."

We're living in some unprecedented times, and I'm thinking we all just need to give each other a little bit of grace. Social media has become such an ugly place for people to pass judgement and advance their crazy conspiracy theories that I actually preferred the days of the pyramid schemes. Why, yes, Susan, I will buy that non-FDA approved magic potion syrup if you would just stop posting articles of the benefits of wearing three masks at the beach.

I get why the world has been so focused on health during this pandemic, because, DUH, it's a pandemic. This virus attacks the respiratory system. It attacks the vascular system. It wrecks the body, but I also feel the need to say this: it's attacking our mental health, as well. There's this thought that if we talk about the consequences of this pandemic on our actual sanity, then we're minimizing the seriousness of this virus. But I don't find that to be true; the two are not mutually exclusive. 

We are able to fear this virus and recognize its devastation while still mourning the small, silly things in our lives that have been taken away or put on pause. Is that selfish of us? Sure. But we're human beings. We all feel it, right?

I miss concerts. I miss going to college basketball games and dripping nacho cheese on my black leggings while the crowd roars around me. I miss getting all up in my friends' faces after one too many glasses of wine. I mostly just miss all the people.