I F**kin Love My Husband


I f**kin love my husband. Like really love him. I know I have written on this subject before but I think every once in awhile he needs a reminder. Or maybe I do.

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I have loved my husband one way or another for over 20 years. I have wished for him. I have longed for him. I have lusted after him. I have missed him. I have hated him. I have wept for him. I have wanted to suffocate him with a couch cushion before. Obviously I have not acted on that last one. But I have felt probably every emotion imaginable about him or for him in the last 2 decades.

Now in the last six years we have had many ups and downs. Miscarriages, job loss, births, mental breakdowns, depression, and nearly death. We have fought through some serious shit. But honestly it is the daily crap that really gets one down.

And I can say without a doubt that there is no one on this earth I would want to trudge through the mundane with.

He is also hot. I know recently there was the whole massive Facebook sharing on that study where women prefer chubby men. I however do not. So yeah don’t go getting too plump honey. Well you can but I may get a young hot boyfriend. I am totally not kidding. Asshole I know, shame on me.

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I digress. My thin hot husband is amazing. I love him. I appreciate him. I know I am spoiled. And he puts up with crazy. He is a f**cking saint. Seriously come hang out at our house for a few hours you’ll be amazed that he is still a functioning person. 6 kids, two of which are teenagers, and 3 are toddlers. Holy shit it is like a sitcom but not funny. Well funny for everyone else.

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He deserves a medal or maybe some anal. Haha that was inappropriate. I apologize.

Seriously I f**kin love this dude.

 

Come sit beside me, my only son


My son has always been different. I chalked it up to being just a boy. Not that I have any clue if boys are any different than girls in their early years. I just made assumptions based off gender stereotypes and BuzzFeed articles discussing the ten things every mother of boys knows.

He is in fact different than his sisters. He does not welcome kisses or care to respond when you call his name. He rarely looks you in the eye and is content to be left alone. I thought he was just a “good” baby. The kind that rarely cries. Till I started to notice the little things. The little quirks like walking on his tip toes or sticking his fingers in his ears. I joked the biting was Conrad kisses and the pinching was just frustration. His intense focus on certain things and his lack of interest in just about everything else.

I found the head banging alarming. But Google and our pediatrician said it was just the age. He would grow out of it. When he would take a tumble and just keep going, we admired his strength. That’s one tough kid.

I felt apprehensive that he had yet to utter a word by 14 months. I came up with all kinds of excuses on why we were still waiting for a “mama” or a “dada” at 20 months. Maybe he couldn’t hear well. Maybe his needs are just being met. Actually I was scared. I had this pain in the pit of my stomach. A painful foreboding. I am still scared and confused. I could tell his early intervention assessment was not going well. She kept repeating the same questions like my answers would be different the 4th time around. Should it be different? I was even tempted to lie. Or convince myself and her that he was doing all of the things she had asked. I had seen it. Heard it. But I hadn’t. I felt defeated.

Speech therapist, play therapist, occupational therapist, he needs a sensory gym, weighted blanket, special toys, a quiet place, squeeze his hands. Don’t worry we will show you. We will show you.

It feels like a wave crashing over me. I feel like I am gasping for air. You have expectations as parents, as people. I had expectations. I always said I didn’t that I just wanted my kids to be happy. Then I realized that was a lie. I had expectations. And I felt and feel so horrible that for even a moment I felt and feel sad or disappointed by the hand we were dealt. Expectations, they are a bitch.

Of course it is human nature to want a reason. Did I do something wrong? Was it the pregnancy? The almost dying? The Lovenox? Bad genes? My age? What did I do? Funny enough I can tell you it was not the MMR vaccine. Delayed by my own laziness and a 4 month wait list to see a new pediatrician.

He’s always been different.

We are still wrapping our head around it. Still adjusting. I find myself some where between hopeful and terrified. I look at my only son and I see this beautiful little boy. My beautiful baby boy and I think to myself that I need to just hold onto every moment, live it slowly, and just love him.

My only son.

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I bought boobs.


I was still waiting for the boob fairy to visit me in my sleep and grant my boob dreams. Any boobs other than mine would suffice. Like really all the way into my 30’s I was hoping I would magically wake up with tits someday.

Fine I had breast. If sad deflated sacks of skin that could barely fill an A cup can be called breast. I could blame breastfeeding on the deflation but I always lacked the size and mass.

My entire life I have suffered with poor body image. In my teens I was too thin. In my 20’s I was too fat. And in my 30’s gravity had already taken its toll. Gravity is a bitch.

In the last 5 years I have had 5 miscarriages, 7 pregnancies, a hysterectomy, my gallbladder removed, and a bout with postpartum depression. Not to mention the 3 children I birthed before all of that. My self esteem was not at an all time low, it was non-existent.

Physically I had faired well through all of it. No stretch marks, yes you can hate me. Even though I had gained 20 pounds I managed to gain it mostly in all of the right places. My ass and thighs are bangin! But I became fixated with my breast.

I hated them. To the point that it was irrational. I wouldn’t even remove my shirt to have sex with my husband. I would shield them with a towel if he happened to be in the room after I stepped out of the shower.

I often chided myself for being so shallow. I should love my body and all of its flaws. I needed to be a role model for my daughters. Fuck the media and society with their unrealistic beauty standards! But I did not feel beautiful. I wanted out of the skin I was in. Well I wanted breast, firm large bouncy boobies. The kind you could motorboat!

I have had breast envy my entire life. I was pretty convinced the grass was in fact greener on the other side.

So I bought boobs. And they are fantastic. Now they did not magically fix decades of self loathing. I still groan when I look in the mirror on occasion. They did however make my self esteem sky rocket. Like seriously I love these boobies. Do you want to see them? I will show you. Do you not want to see them? I will still show you. Do you want to touch them? Go ahead. Wait scratch that please ask first.

Did I do it to fit in? Did I cave to the unrealistic standard of beauty? Sure. Absolutely. I have spent my entire life seeing images of what is beautiful and what is not beautiful. It becomes ingrained in our minds. It is nearly impossible to not be influenced by it. When I looked at my naked breast I felt loathing and shame.

I recognize that. I know that. I altered my body because I could not accept it. So I feel animosity for the stigma that is placed on women. It begins at a very young age. But I find myself in a conundrum. I do not regret getting breast implants. I love them. I feel awesome.

The response to breast implants is a mixed bag. Some people love them. Some people hate them. Some people will tell you that you were already beautiful. Others will say they are awesome. I have even heard gross. But never from a dude. Dudes usually fall into the love and awesome categories.

But in the end their opinions don’t matter. Sure we touched on the influence behind the reasoning. But I bought boobs for ME. For ME. They make ME feel better. They made ME feel better. And they can really fill out a top.

Do I want you to like my boobs? Sure. It is like buying a Ferrari. No one hides their Ferrari in the garage. They have that Ferrari out on the open road for the world to see or at least their neighbors. I want to hear shit those are some sweet boobs. Look at those boobies bounce! Again I love the boobs!

So I don’t have the answers on how to make the world a more accepting place. I am not a role model for loving my postpartum body. Maybe I am an example on what not to do. Shit maybe we should just lose the tops so all breast of every shape and size become nothing to look at. Just another pair of titties.

Boobs.

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Loving Russell Brand(the dog)


This is probably the tenth time I have attempted to write about this particular subject. For the first time in my life I have had no desire to speak. And I really never shut up. I have several drafts and a few that have been discarded. But this is it so here goes.

I am an animal person. Even when I pretend not to be. I like them. I even love them except when I am wearing black or I have stepped in poop. I would absolutely give CPR to a squirrel. I feed strays. I worry when I see a dog running down the street. I have been known to bring home an animal here and there. Usually pregnant cats. I have a sign somewhere on me that only pregnant cats can see.

On the day that Russell had decided to shimmy up the fence to explore the neighborhood it had been just like any other day. I was irritated with my shoe full of children. Dogs were underfoot. I was my crazed tired mom self. I knew Russell could climb the fence. Russell was one of those dogs. You know the kind that will find any way to escape. He didn’t do it all the time just when the mood struck him.

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2 minutes was all it took for me to shoo Russell outside, for him to shimmy over the fence, and to be hit by a truck. When our neighbor knocked on our door my first words were “Is he out again?” You can imagine my shock when he replied “He was hit by a car.”

The next fifteen minutes were a complete blur. Someone said they were sorry. Someone asked me if I needed a towel. Someone said they tried to stop her. Someone said poor doggy.

I held him in my arms covered in blood, standing on my patio completely lost on what to do next. I couldn’t let the toddlers see him. Matt was at work. I needed to get him to a vet. I needed help.

Our wonderful neighbors came to our rescue. To his rescue with a ride to the emergency vet hospital. I stayed behind with toddlers and handed over Russell to August. August held him the whole way there. August waited 6 hours in a waiting room hoping to hear good news. August cried herself to sleep that night. In that moment I was so very proud of her. I was also so very heartbroken for her. And for Russell.

Matt and I had discussed prior what we would do if ever one of our pets were injured or sick and if the costs of care were too much. But when the phone calls came in and we went from $300 to $1000 in less than two hours the costs didn’t seem so large. Even when that $1000 tripled over the weekend it was hard to put a limit on the value of Russell’s life.

Russell made it. He was hit by a truck and lived. We were so overjoyed and scared. The vet went over his care instructions. She explained to us that his front leg had been fractured. And his back leg had been degloved. I googled degloving. I suggest you don’t. He had painkillers and antibiotics. He was wrapped up. He looked dazed and broken. We were told to follow up with our vet. It felt so overwhelming but he was alive.

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The next morning we were turned away by his regular vet. They would not be able to treat his degloving injury. We were then turned down by several more vets. When finally a nice woman gave me a reference instead of telling me to just call around.

We found what would end up being the most wonderful veterinarian clinic ever. On our first visit I saw Russell’s degloving injury. It will be a memory that I keep with me forever. It was also explained to us Russell would need a costly surgery to place a plate in his leg to ever use it again. That pins probably wouldn’t work and we could attempt splinting it. But for that to work we would have to pray for a miracle. Sadly we had exhausted all of our funds and could only afford the miracle.

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Over the course of the next two weeks we spent every other day in that veterinarian clinic having Russell bandaged and x-rayed. My sister suggested a GoFundMe account. I had to google it. And well I said why not it couldn’t hurt. I was holding out hope we could swing that surgery for Russell.

People can be very kind. The support has made my little grinch heart grow and grow. Donations came in from family, friends, and strangers. People can also be cruel. I had an individual put me on blast for my prior spending habits. It made me angry and sad. I also felt guilty for not being able to predict the future. For not having enough money for that surgery. I tried to tell myself that we had already spent more or had done more than most could or would have. But it still hurt.

Russell also likes to shimmy out of things which is what he did on a Friday night of course. He decided that splint sucked and he had enough of it. His x-ray would show that his leg was at a 90 degree angle again. This would be the 3rd time to attempt to straighten it. Which required sedating Russell again. Amputation had already been uttered. We already had the inevitable eating away at us. How do you make that kind of decision? How do you cut off the limb of someone you love? I did a lot of crying. I am still crying.

We were told Russell would keep breaking his leg, that even the plate wasn’t a guarantee. Could we really confine Russell for months, keep his leg splinted, and then risk doing it all over again the minute that splint came off. So we made the decision to amputate his leg. Through the whole process we were so worried about that back paw. We were worried about infection. An infection could mean the loss of his limb. And man that back paw healed beautifully. I still feel blindsided. You break a leg, you wear a silly cast, and it heals right?

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We are on day 4 with Russell our spirited tripawd dog. Thanks to the kindness of family, friends, and strangers we almost have enough to cover his amputation surgery. It means so much to us. I can not even express our gratitude enough. Russell’s vet family is amazing. I want to just hug every single one of them there but especially his technician Peter who has gone above and beyond for little Russell. He is a hero to us.

I had no idea how much I loved my little buddy Russell Brand till this nightmare happened. Recently Matt had given a speech to the girls about loving specifically their pets while they are here. To pet them and play with them. To be the best human companions possible. I have not always been the best companion possible. I have been guilty of not petting or playing enough. I have been distracted. I have been irritated. I have been down right mad. And I have learned a hard lesson. Love them while they are here. You will miss them when they are gone.

Russell is a warrior. I know he will rock 3 legs.

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http://www.gofundme.com/russellbrand4legs

 

Pie, Pussy, and Rascal Flatts


I don’t make apologies for being me. Once upon a time in my life I did. I attempted to conform to an idea, a perception of who I should be. That’s bullshit. I won’t apologize for my flaws either. And I am very flawed.

I’m the take it or leave it sort. I’m a hypocrite. On occasion I will even lie. I’ve probably sinned 12 times already this morning. My kids are eating processed crap and watching the television. I have a sink full of dishes and laundry on the floor. I don’t tell my mother I love her enough. I don’t tell my sister I love her enough. I haven’t kissed my husband in days. But I have copped a feel or two.

Sometimes I laugh at things I shouldn’t. Sometimes I fail to cry when I should. I like to buy things, anything really. I dress like a stripper. I like strippers. They deserve more respect. I have an unnatural love for lemon meringue pie. I pee with the door open. But I won’t fart in front of my husband. I like tits. I wanted tits. I bought tits. I like the sound of my own voice.

I hold grudges. I think letting things go is hippy bullshit. Being pissed off suits me. I don’t like dogs or cats. I try to convince myself I do. They are much cuter from a distance or on pants. But not their hair on my pants. Speaking of animals I want Sarah McClachlan to fall off the face of the earth. I make little lists in my head of people I wish I could send hate mail to. But that would require an effort and stamps. I listen to bad country music no really bad like Rascal Flatts bad. I also have J. Lo on my iPod.

I tend to not follow through. I am perpetually late. I blame my children but generally it is because I hit snooze 10 times. I forget things that don’t pertain to me. I can’t take anyone with an infinity symbol tattoo seriously and I have a vagina tattooed on my arm. I use bad language. Really bad language all of the time. I’m too strict and at times not strict enough. I think you suck. But I still like you. Well not all of you. Some of you are on my hate mail lists.

I want you to stop making apologies. I want you to stop beating yourself up. Guilt is bullshit. Sure you can’t right all wrongs. You get to just live with them. It is how you live with them that matters. Stop being a pussy. Just be you. It will be okay. Or it won’t. But at least you had some balls. And not the saggy kind but the firm proud I’m about to bust a nut kind. I’m not sure where I’m going with that. I did mention I was vulgar right?

Cat pants ftw -Samantha Osborn

Buying Happiness


If you happen to follow me on Facebook or Instagram you already know I am having breast augmentation surgery. In 3 days actually. Now I am sure everyone at this point is thinking shut up about your boobs already. But I’m mega stoked so you get to hear about it more. Yay you. Okay so I will be doing a video journal and will be updating my blog. You can watch the video here….

I just suggest subscribing to the page, oh and following on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/TheModifiedMama

Wish me luck and perky boobies!

Faking it


Pounding away at the keys but nothing is coming. My thoughts are sporadic or jumbled or jumbled and sporadic. I’m going through a dry spell. I hate dry spells. Distractions every where. Inability to focus on one thing. I’d claim some sort of mental disorder but it would be a lie. Unless laziness and apathy count as a disease. I’m missing passion for words. I usually have it in spades. But it all feels pointless. I’m out of jokes.

My oldest woman child has an inability to grasp common courtesy. And apparently the talk button on her phone. She can work it well enough when she needs something like eyeliner or money. I find her excuses tiresome and lacking zeal. At least attempt a good lie. Have some cleverness. I’m assuming she just thinks I am dumb. Or she suffers from her mother’s laziness and apathy. The other woman child is passionate. I wouldn’t describe her as clever but she at least puts on a good show.

I’m trying to figure out how one survives the coming of age years. And makes it out sane. Wine isn’t helping. I think I need friends. But I have an impossible standard to adhere to. You can’t be a twat. It makes most friendships short lived. Who am I kidding I can’t maintain a friendship. I can’t even leave my home due to rashes, coughs, and other various plagues. And the only kind of people that will walk into a lion’s den are usually insane or on drugs. I have enough insanity in my life.

6 kids. Mundane is not the word to describe my days. It is full of excitement. And by excitement I mean torture. Specifically mine. I think I may be dead and this is hell. Okay fine I am exaggerating. And I am sure somebody with a huge stick up their ass will think I am awful for describing life with my children as hell. But it is awful and wonderful and awful and wonderful… Which further convinces me I am in fact living in hell. I can change a poopy diaper and eat a sandwich at the same time, gross. I’m totally fine with not brushing my teeth, not wearing clean clothes, not eating a hot meal, not sleeping, and picking someone else’s nose. They just occasionally have to hug me. I may have been abducted. Help.

Valentine’s Day is fast approaching. I can’t even muster up some fake excitement. I’ll be lucky to get a moment alone with my husband. So it is basically just like everyday but with red and pink hearts vomiting all over the place. I’m having an Eeyore moment. Maybe Chicken Little, I think the sky is falling. Even cat leggings can’t knock me out of this funk.

 

I am in need of something. Maybe a good laugh or a good banging.

Sigh.