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Well, I haven’t done this in a while. It’s not that I haven’t had much to say; I’ve actually had a LOT to talk about, but as my kids get older, a lot of the things I have to talk about aren’t my things anymore. These kids that I carried, birthed, raised, are bona fide people now.

I don’t know how that happened.

But our stories are still very much intertwined. And there is a story that is moving me to write today.

Today is the anniversary of the worst day of my life.

I’m not saying that to be funny or even hyperbolic. It was, legitimately, the worst day of my life. It was worse than the day, six months before it, when I found out my Drama Queen had been shoplifting, which was the same day I found out she’d also been cutting herself. I thought that would be the worst day of my life. But there was one coming that was worse.

It was worse than the night on vacation, where I accused her of smoking pot in a bathroom of a restaurant. She let me search her in the bathroom and I found nothing. She got sick later that night, and we made her take a drug test the next morning.

You can get drug tests at CVS. Did you know? I didn’t.

It was negative, by the way.

It was worse than the days that followed, the quiet girl who used to be so vivacious, silently sulking down to dinner, silently sulking back upstairs.

It was worse than the day that her therapist told me, “maybe we should start thinking about medication,” and it was worse than the first appointment with the psychiatrist a month later, where my baby wouldn’t talk, but filled out a questionnaire, that left the doctor saying, “Oh, this is very bad,” and prescribing Prozac.

It was worse than giving her Prozac every night and not seeing anything change. Seeing her sad, argumentative, despondent.

It was worse than all that. On this day, last year, my beautiful 15 year old daughter, who has the same eyes as mine, who loves her puppy, who used to go fishing with her daddy, who once made a paper Christmas tree for her and her sister’s bedroom, tried to kill herself.

Pills. It was pills. Benadryl and Excedrin PM and I’m not even sure what else. I couldn’t wake her up. When I did get her up, she wasn’t making a lot of sense. She told me, “I don’t know why I’m so tired,” and I left her in her room and went downstairs to quietly fume about her horrible sleep patterns.

But my heart was beating out of my chest, and I KNEW it wasn’t horrible sleep patterns. And when I went back upstairs and grabbed her phone to look through her messages, she confessed it all. Well, she confessed the pills. ALL would come over the next weeks. ALL was a lot. ALL nearly killed me.

I called then county mental health line, and they said yes, I should bring her to the hospital. The woman on the phone said, “Oh, honey. I would. If it was my daughter, yes, I would.” Her voice was a hug when I really needed one.

So off to the hospital, where we stayed for 30-something hours in a safe room in the ER, waiting for a bed to open in a juvenile mental health ward. We finally got one in a hospital an hour away. The first time I ever rode in an ambulance, my daughter was strapped to a stretcher, being transported to a psych ward.

And then, you guys, I had to LEAVE HER THERE. Like, sign her in and hug her and go home. Without her. Leave her, with people I didn’t know, with people she didn’t know, in the hopes that they could help her. Because I very clearly could not.

When did we get to the point where mama couldn’t hug away all the bad?

I had to leave her. So I hugged her and I whispered in her ear, “please get better.” I told her I love her and her father and I cried the entire hour home.

She was there for a week. We visited her every day during visiting hours. Six pm to eight pm. Two hours a day. And we never knew who we’d find at visiting hours. Some days she was angry. Some days she was sad. Some days she was okay. Not great, but not terrible.

But every day I had to leave her again. And every day I cried the entire way home.

I cried because I was leaving her and I cried because, throughout the week, I was learning that I didn’t know my kid. Not at all. I thought I did, but now, with access to her phone, I realized that I was very wrong.

She was vaping nicotine, she was smoking pot, she was cutting herself and sending pictures of her arms to people. She talked to her friends about dying all the time.

Understand, that I saw NONE of this. The cutting and the shoplifting blindsided me, but I thought that was it. I wasn’t prepared for what I found on her phone. Or in her room. The amount of things that a teenager has access to that they can use to hurt themselves is astounding. It’s not something you’d ever even think of if you weren’t going through your teenagers things to try to find things they could hurt themselves with.

After a week, she was released with a new higher dose of Prozac, and a spot in an outpatient program near our house. After five weeks in the outpatient program, she went back to school. For four more weeks, she went to the outpatient program after school. It was a way to ease her back in.

She learned coping mechanisms. We stopped seeing her therapist, and switched psychiatrists. She started seeing a clinician in school. Her new psychiatrist switched her meds.

She stopped vaping, and when Covid happened and schools shut down, she no longer had access to pot.

Her grades improved, she started making plans for the future, she’s proud of the progress she’s made. She stopped hiding the scars on her arms, and will proudly tell anyone who asks about them, “I’m a recovering self-harmer.” The emphasis is on recovering.

Recovering. I feel like we’re all recovering. But, my god, are we in a different place on this December 5th than we were on last December 5th. I still struggle with trusting her. But I don’t have all our knives locked in a safe anymore. She goes to the mall with her friends, like any normal teenager would do, and when she gets home she shows me all her receipts and lets me go through her bags and pockets.

It’s astoundingly hard to build broken trust back up. Astoundingly.

But, she’s got a job. She bought herself a new skateboard. She’s doing online school because of Covid, and she is KILLING it. She’s got a boyfriend. She laughs all the time. She plays video games with her sister. She makes us all learn ridiculous TikTok dances so she can show her friends how cool her parents are.

Oh my baby girl. I missed her so much. I’m still so scared, and I’m still so broken. But the cracks are where the light shines through.

I’m so proud of her. She is kind and she is loving and she is so god damned strong. She is a straight up mother fucking warrior. She has never failed at anything before in her life. Except killing herself. And I’m thankful every day for that failure.

If you, or someone you know, is struggling, help is available.

Ladies, why is it so hard to move past high school? Why do we continue to gossip, even about people we really and truly like?

Listen, things happen and things will continue happening throughout our entire lives. People will disappoint us, they’ll upset us. It’s not going to stop.  And it’s not their fault.

Okay, sometimes it is. But it’s not always their fault.

And, guess what? You’re going to disappoint and upset other people. You’re going to do it the entire time you’re alive. And it won’t always be your fault.

So, what’s the point in bitching about someone behind her back because she disappointed you?  Unless she’s an asshole, she didn’t mean to disappoint you. And if she is an asshole and did mean it, you don’t want her in your life anyway.  Let it go. The more you talk about it, the more power you’re giving the asshole.

So, here’s my plea: STAAAHP!

Just stop. Before you say something about a person who isn’t there, think about how you’d feel if you overheard someone saying it about you. If that makes you feel bad, don’t fucking say it. Just keep your mouth shut.

Don’t bring someone else into drama she doesn’t belong in. If you have a problem with someone, it’s your problem with her, not mine. I’m a Libra. I crave harmony and balance and this shit is not harmonious. I don’t like it. Don’t drag me into it.

I’m very busy raising two little girls who I am trying to encourage to be good people. To be good women. To be good friends. I am teaching them by example. When you bring your drama to my house? You make that very hard.

In addition to all of this… you know those stereotypes about women being catty and manipulative? Well, guess what, bitch. They’re talking about you.  This is why women have such a hard time trusting each other. This is why people say that they’d rather be friends with boys, because there’s less drama. Preach it.

Save the drama for your mama, folks. And, really, after a certain age, she doesn’t give a shit about your drama, either.

Okay, people. I hate this year already.

So far, in 2015:

The Drama Queen lost a filling. That was a $180 fix.

I broke out in hives IN A VERY DELICATE AREA for no reason whatsoever. That was a $35 copay plus some for a medicated cream.

I broke my mother fucking toe. No, seriously. I get up every morning and buddy tape it to the on next to it. I’m starting to get some movement back in it.

What? How did I break my toe? Tripping over my kids’ shit in the living room, OF COURSE.

I smacked my head into an open cabinet door and thought I was going to die. But I didn’t. Clearly. I’m typing.

Mr. Sasha developed a staph infection. No, really. A staph infection. Out of nowhere.

A friend’s husband died of a heart attack at the ripe old age of thirty fucking nine. Thirty nine. You’re not supposed to die at thirty nine. You’re supposed to spend the entire year dreading entering your forties. But not to the point that you don’t actually make it to your forties.

My mother-in-law’s sister died of natural causes.

Mr. Sasha fell off a ladder yesterday and split his head open. Ah, whatever, he’s tough. Didn’t even need stitches. I forgot to ask if he’s going to get paid for the time he spent at the hospital getting CT scanned and such.

In addition to that, Miss Poopie Pants and I are looking for a play therapist to help us both stop feeling like we’re going to kill each other at any moment. We’re also looking for a good karate school, so, you know, if she DOES decide to kill me, she totally can. But also, you know, burning off energy, gaining discipline, etc. etc. yadda, yadda.

Oh, AND! My car died! And then Mr. Sasha’s truck died! Like, within a week of each other. So, yay! We have two new car payments!

In addition to all this, I’m in the middle of redoing the attic to be a play room for the Sashlettes, and my house is otherwise in a shambles. In fact, it’s never actually been this messy, I don’t think. And my house is very rarely clean.

Well, I go on tears, where I work myself to exhaustion and get every single thing put away, and keep up with everything, often for weeks at a time. But the very first time anything throws my very carefully laid schedule off, the whole house gets shot to shit.

So, I’ve got plenty of things to choose from to bitch about. But I’ve done enough of that. This is mostly a post to set up some future posts. For example, the scintillating discussion about why chewy cough drops should be banned from existence.

HINT: that one has to do with the Drama Queen’s filling.

Or, how about the official pros versus cons list of minivans.

There will, no doubt, be the scintillating series reviewing every single karate school in New Jersey. If you’re not looking for a karate school in New Jersey, oh well. Read it anyway.

And another riveting group of articles about play therapy. Or perhaps a few about the best way to use duct tape to fasten children to a wall.

It was a joke. Don’t call CPS.

So, stay tuned, minions. Writing shall commence forthwith. WTF does “forthwith” mean?

Suzy Homemaker up in dis house, bitches! My house is very close to Company Clean, with the huge exception of the Sashlettes’ room. That place is the seventh circle of hell.

I mean, I even have candles burning. There’s a goddamned quiche in my oven, minions. The laundry! The laundry is done, folded, and put the fuck away!

It’s insanity, I’m telling you.

I sat down to blog because I can’t think of anything else I have to do. Besides, you know, the Sahslette’s room. And fuck that noise.

I was in a pretty bad place last weekend and part of the problem, I realized, was that the house was getting overwhelming. So, I spent the early part of this week fixing that problem.

That’s me, you know? I fix all the problems. When MPP was crying because it hurt when she peed, I’m the one who drove her to two different urgent care places, and finding them both closed, I’m the one who harassed the CVS pharmacist to get her some pain relief.

I’m the one who cleaned up the mess after The Pupster ripped into a garbage bag and ate an entire chicken carcass.

Fear not, minions, I had used it to make bone broth so all the bones were super soft and mushy. The Pupster is a certified idiot, but he’s not going to die just yet.

I’m the one who drives back and forth to DQ’s guitar lessons, the one who makes lunches every day, and makes sure there’s dinner every night. We’d all be naked if I didn’t do laundry.

It’s frustrating to be a single parent when you’re very married. But I’m working on coming to grips with it, because this is just where we are right now.

Mr. Sasha is working 12 hour days, Monday through Friday, with an hour commute each way. But, on the weekends! On the weekends he only works TEN hour days, with an hour commute each way!

Do I have to tell you that was sarcasm? I hope not; if you didn’t know that, you might want to go find another blog. This one is a little too much for you.

In addition to all that working, Mr. Sasha is also in the process of completing his core course requirements for college, because at 39 years old, he thought it’d be a good idea to get a degree.

To be clear, I don’t disagree with him, I just wish he wasn’t doing it while working seven days a week.

School is entirely online thus far, but as he gets into his major, he’ll have onsite labs and such. That might be easier to deal with, actually.

It basically rolls like this: He gets home from work around 6:30, and we have dinner. Then he opens his computer. I try to keep the kids from bothering him, either by talking to him, or fighting with each other, or otherwise making too much noise.

I make lunches, make sure homework is done and clean up the kitchen from dinner. Then I nag the kids to brush their teeth. I say it at least thirteen times. Some nights? It’s a lot fucking more. A lot. Then I get them to bed. While I get them to bed, Mr. Sasha goes to bed.

By the time I’m done with them and they’re asleep, he is snoring away.

I kind of miss being married.

But, like I said, I’m learning to work with it for now. Someday school will be over and the in-fucking-sane overtime won’t last forever. I think if I can work on some more ways to blow off steam, I’ll be okay.

Like, for example, I’ve finished off about a half a bottle of wine so far, and it’s only 5pm. So, that should help.

Happy weekend, minions!

Today was snow day #451461757541f2t3294h87ri4.


No, really.  Look at that, there’s even letters in there.  It’s like, algebra and shit.


I haven’t been drinking a lot lately, because Mr. Sasha has been working nights and it just isn’t a good idea for the only adult in the house to be trashed to pieces overnight.


The Pupster is an awesome dog, but he can’t drive to the ER at 2am.  Not that I’ve ever had to do that. But the first night I’m totally wrecked? Someone will need a cast.


It will probably be the Drama Queen, because she doesn’t bounce.


ANYWAY, my point is, minions, I have become a cheap, cheap date.  But, today, when Mr. Sasha got home, I decided enough is enough and I was going to stick some Baileys in my coffee.


And then I was talking to a few of my friends, who were also home because of the algebraic snow day, and they suggested shots.  So we did shots.


It was 10am.


Mr. Sasha went to sleep around 11:30. I think. I couldn’t really tell time at that point.


I put the Olympics on when the kids went outside and fell desperately in lust with a curler. And curling actually made sense. It didn’t make sense when I was sober.


One of those things, I guess. Like dancing.


Anyway, I spent most of the day drinking with my friends on Facebook and this is why I love the modern age.


I’m sober now, because Mr. Sasha is getting ready for work. But stand by, minions, because we’re getting another foot or so over night, and I’m guessing we’ll have another snow day tomorrow.


This one will have an exponent.

Hi. Happy summer. Or whatever season it is where you are.  Here, it’s summer.
Typically, I hate summer. Summer means 24/7 mom duty.  I do not look forward to 24/7 mom duty. I love my kids, but not every second of every day.


So, when summer starts, I start a countdown. A countdown to when school starts back up.


We’re at 55 days.  Less than two months, and I can have my living room back.


The truth is, this summer has not sucked as hard as summers past.  There are a couple reasons for this.


First, somehow, the Drama Queen and Miss Poopie Pants have stopped fighting. Not altogether, but for the most part.  Right now, in fact, they are outside playing with the hose.


Aside, I refuse to let summer come again until I have a mother fucking pool.  Hope you’re reading, Mr. Sasha.


Another thing this summer has going for it is copious amounts of planning on my part.  We’re three weeks into summer and I’ve heard “Mom!!!! I’m BORED!” exactly ONCE, minions.




This is because, in anticipation of the long boring days of summer, I spent the last week of school putting together my BORED BOX.


Sure, there’s fun stuff in there. Stuff like bubbles and playing in the sprinkler and pretending you’re a princess who has to slay a dragon.


But there’s not so fun stuff in there, too. Making beds, cleaning floors, weeding gardens.


No one wants to tell me they’re bored for fear they’ll get stuck cleaning out the hamster cage. Smart girls, I have.


Here’s something else that’s awesome about this summer.  I suddenly find myself with a circle of IRL friends.  It’s been a long time since I had a circle of IRL friends.


We get together as much as we can, and we do it without kids as often as possible. This. Is. Awesome.


BUT. I am still counting down till school.


It’s kind of my thing.


I’m looking forward to school. Not just because my kids will be gone for six hours or so, either. I have lots of reasons for looking forward to school.


School means I can work more. Both at writing and at my part time job.  The more I work, the more money I make. The more money I make, the more fun things I can buy.


Like movie tickets. Or tequila.


School means my house will be clean again.  Over the summer, the whirling dervishes that are my daughters leave their stuff every freaking where. But, once they’re out of the house for several hours at a clip without me, I can put their stuff away, and get rid of the crap they don’t play with anymore, with no one being the wiser.


School means I can run up the street to the supermarket to get something I just realized I need for dinner tonight without needing an act of Congress.  It also means that there is a much better chance of me actually having everything I need for dinner in the first place, because I can go grocery shopping alone, paying attention to only my list and not The Flying Karamazov Sisters.


They will, someday, sneak past me and leap from the top shelf. I just hope we’re not in the glassware aisle when it happens.


School means my dog and I can take our walks at the pace we prefer, instead of the snail pace my kids prefer.


School means the weather is going to cool the fuck down. That, in and of itself, is enough of a reason to look forward to school.


To be perfectly honest, there are parts of school that I am not looking forward to.  Getting up early, homework, fighting over whether or not they’re allowed to wear a certain outfit to school. These are all things that suck.


But they are greatly trumped by the advantages of my kids going to school. At least, for me.


So, to my teacher friends who are so pissed off at me for counting down the days till summer’s gone, bite me.


If you’re not looking forward to going back to work even a little bitty bit, why on earth are you a teacher anyway?


And to my mom friends who simply can’t believe that I don’t relish every single moment of my summer with my kids, bite me.


I do enjoy my time with my kids. I just enjoy it a lot more when I have some time away from them, too.


And to Mr. Sasha, who doesn’t freak out when he gets home and the house is a mess and dinner isn’t made and the kids are naked and I haven’t showered, thanks.


Also, get on that pool thing.

I hate to count my chickens before they’re hatched, but….


Miss Poopie Pants has been successfully NOT pooping in her pants for almost five full days now. Even through the stomach plague that’s ripping through our family, she refused pull ups and stayed accident free.


To say I’m shocked is putting it mildly. However, good freaking Lord, the kid is going to be four in a couple weeks. It’s about GD time.


This is the secret to my unbounded success: The Potty Watch.  It plays a little ditty every 90 minutes, and the Artist Formerly Known as Miss Poopie Pants makes a beeline for the bathroom.


So, perhaps it is a little preemptive, but I’m taking solicitations for new names for this kid.  I’m considering Daisy the Zombie Slayer, but really? I don’t think she wants to slay the freaking things. I think she wants to make them her pets and friends.


She’s an odd bird, this one.


Leave your suggestions in the comment. I’ll choose my favorite and might even hit you up with something awesome in return.  Maybe something like this, in honor of the Zombie Slayer.

I’m starving, but I’m afraid to eat.


Not because I’m afraid of gaining weight. Although my diet has me about 20 pounds lower than I was when I started, woot!


Because I’m afraid I’m going to get the Christmas Fucking Plague that’s systematically working its way through my family right now.


It started with Miss Poopie Pants, and I was nowhere near home at the time. Mr. Sasha and I were two hours south, in Atlantic City, winning some cash on the slot machines, when the puking began.  My mom was here.  I feel a little bad, but not bad enough to not be hugely grateful that I missed the entire episode.  By the time I got home on Monday, she was nearly better. And after a five hour nap, she was all better.


Last night, 2:30am, Drama Queen very dramatically screamed and, very impressively, yakked over the side of her bunk bed.  She didn’t get a speck of it on her or her bed. I must have told her eight times how proud I was of her. I’m not a fan of changing sheets on the freaking top bunk. Especially under duress at 2:30 in the fucking morning.


Needless to say, we were up the rest of the night. She’s a good kid who never misses the barf bucket, so the clean up has been minimal.  Of course, she also gets mean as a fucking snake when she’s sick.  Like, OMG, who IS this child?!


When I told her she can’t go to school tomorrow, she hit me with “Two words, Mommy. GET AWAY FROM ME.”  I told her “That was four words,” ducked and ran out of the room.


She’s got her father’s pitching arm.


Right, so, in the midst of all of this, take a look at the date, minions. FOUR FUCKING DAYS TO CHRISTMAS!


Guess who’s not done shopping? Yeah, this girl.


Guess who’s not going to get to GO shopping anytime soon?  Yeah, me too.


Guess who’s supposed to be hosting the entire Sasha family for Christmas Eve? Yup.


I’m going to take a want-ad out for an elf.  Think the Fat Man can spare one this close to Christmas?

Drama Queen: “Mommy, I’m halfway through this book and I don’t know anything about it.”


Me: (Totally distracted by Zuma on FaceBook) “Oh? Well, maybe he wants you to read it again.”


DQ: “What?! What does that even mean?”


Me: “Wait, what? What are you asking me?”


DQ: “Are we even having the same conversation?”


Me: “Apparently not.”


DQ: “Oh. Em. Gee.”


Me (to Mr. Sasha): “Did she just say ‘Oh Em Gee?'”


DQ: “Yes! I did!”


Miss Poopie Pants: “G doesn’t even come after O! Everyone knows H comes after O!”


…. can’t… breathe….laughing…too….hard…..

The Rare Saturday Post

Oh, who am I kidding? Any post on this blog is kind of rare, huh?


I’m posting really quickly to let you know that I’ve added a page about our Dear Sasha feature. I hope you’ll give it a read and give me a question.


Focusing on other’s problems helps me drown out my own.