Road Map of Owwies

 

Burns. Scars. Bruises. Pains. Heartaches. Fears. All kinds of hurts, from all kinds of experiences. As you grow older, they begin to pile up on you, and you get to where your body and mind tell their own stories. This scar is from the flesh-eating fungal infection I got on my arm six years ago. That burn is from my teen years when I wasn’t good at dealing with my problems in healthy ways. This scar is from my carpal tunnel release surgery; that one is from all the time I spent in the hospital with IVs in my arm during and after my brain surgery episode. Oh, that reminds me of my best scar…

I’m getting to that point in my life where the scars help me remember my stories. Without them, some things I’ve experienced would probably start to fade in my memory. I don’t think my scars are ugly… they’re just part of my story. And I have a lot of them, inside and out. They all play a part in shaping me, one way or another. The two diagonal slash marks on my left middle finger are from slicing my finger while trying to help my mom cut potatoes when I was just five; that is probably my oldest scar. The funniest one is probably the one on my shoulder where I accidentally buried a luer during a bad cast while fishing one day. My most recent? Hard to say; perhaps the deep burn on my right palm, from a cigarette lighter. Or the internal scar that led to it…

So many women obsess about scars, about covering them, about how unsightly they are. Me, I don’t have any problem with my scars. They help me remember what makes me, ME. I’m okay with that. The good and the bad, the ups and the downs, it’s all there.

(In between all the tattoos, of course.)

Oh yes it’s Pirate’s night… and the feelin’s right…

Thank goodness it’s friday! The daughter is off to her dad’s as fast as she can go, the youngest is at a sleepover, and me and the ten year-old (hereforth we shall call him the Mighty B) are havinig a Pirate’s night in, watching POC 3, at world’s end.
You know, when I convinced my hubby to let me get the Jack Sparrow tattoo, it was with the understanding that Johnny Depp himself was NOT the inspiration, only his pirate counterpart. I totally believed that at the time. Most of Depps earlier roles. while notable, were only that – notable. It was only Captain Jack himself that really pushed my buttons.
Now, after seeing Sweeney Todd, I am conflicted.
BUT – my thought is that if I distract him with a matching tattoo of the GORGEOUS Black Pearl, then I will have the time to work Sweeney in at a later date.
And then I honestly wonder: when did I become white trash???

If my head explodes, who will watch the children??

I think I’m at the beginning of a long, growly mood.
It’s twelve degrees outside (oh goody! A heat wave!), my three kids have been driving me crazy since I walked in the door from a long day at work…

and my husband, bless his heart, left this morning for two weeks in Hawaii.

I have never been to Hawaii. In my life. In fact, I have never been anywhere tropical. Gosh, I hope he has a great time.

And then gets eaten by a shark.

He has already told me that the two signed checks he left me are only for emergencies, and that there is DEFINITELY no such thing as an emergency tattoo. I hardly think that’s fair. Any other time, he has NO CLUE what I’m thinking.

So, my kids are driving me insane already, and it’s only the first day. The school quarter ended today, and my high-school aged daughter-slash-burnout has failed at LEAST two classes. When I asked her, “Have you given any thought to the consequences of not graduating High School?” She gave me this half-awake look and said “Uh, I don’t get my cell phone back?”

UGH……

Then there’s my ten-year-old. Someone at some point made the mistake of actually telling him he’s unusually smart. Now he thinks he needs to baby-sit his parents because, obviously, it’s pure luck we’ve made it this far in life without his guidance.

His constant, persistent, unbelievably annoying guidance.

Well on the upside, when I can’t be here, there’s someone to take care of the high-schooler, who if not watched, still tries to microwave food with silverware in it.

Then there’s the eight-year-old. Now, every mother swears she doesn’t pick favorites, and I’m here to tell you they are all rotten liars. My eight year old is awesome. He’s got a short temper, a crazy laugh, and he’ll walk into the room and hug me for no reason. One time someone on TV was chewing out a bad, bad mime on a talent show and the judge said “Holy cow, where do they FIND these people?” There was a moment of quiet and the eight-year-old rolled his eyes and said,
“Uh, HELLO… FRANCE.”