Tasmanian Devil vs. Mama Bear

I tried to think of clever and entertaining ways to evict these ramblings from my mind and make room for new tenants, but I couldn’t. The thing is that I’m too upset and the situation is too fresh for any witty repartee. (And no, not The Situation, although his punk ass would be way easier to handle).

There’s a person who I’m forced to co-exist with, and I do not like it. At all. This person’s energy is like a freakish cyclone, not in a physical way, but in a manipulative, pushy kind of way. I would describe this overwhelming and domineering person to the Tasmanian Devil. I’m not usually a sheep that follows the herd, but in the person’s presence, I’ve been known to exhibit some uncharacteristic behavior, such as putting my credit card number on sketchy websites or committing to social events that were not in the best interest in my family. All because I allowed myself to get swept up in the Taz’s flurry of energy. I started to notice this was getting out of control when Taz was getting all self-entitled and ownership-y with my babes. MY BABES!! My Mommy Alarm System started sounding off, subtly at first and then LOUD, RED FLASHING ALARMS AND LIGHTS. Taz met its match when it messed with Mama Bear. Then I started to say no. Often, but not in a confrontational way (because I knew it would be wasted breath, and I just wanted some space without a discussion). I redefined my personal boundaries and honored my gut feelings. However, recently, I started to let this person back in because I thought my shiny, new, boundaries were not only strong enough, but were clearly communicated. My hope was we could move forward in a healthier direction. So I give an inch, and Taz wants the whole damn mile. Or 10. Or whatever. That’s when it occurred to me that Taz might have a hard time hearing with all that spinning and destruction.
So to put it bluntly, I’m pissed. I’m pissed that Taz can’t or won’t understand personal space and comfort zones. I’m pissed that a Mama Bear doing her job looks like The Bitch. I’m even more pissed that I care how I am perceived.

So there, People, Mama Bear is angry. So angry, it’s blocking my creative juices from flowing. ROAR! Now excuse me while I either harmoniously work out with my Wii Sports Active Trainer or defy her by indulging my anger in some Ben and Jerry’s Marzipan Mission ice cream.

Please, People, offer me some words of enlightenment on how you deal with your own personal Tasmanian Devil!

That Awkward Age

So there a slew of things I probably should talk about it, but don’t feel like it right now. I don’t want to talk about how Thomas has an ENT appointment for his slew of ear infections and persistent fluid in his ears. I don’t want to talk about the clique that is forming in Marie’s 3 year old preschool class. I don’t want to talk about my conflicting feelings about whether or not to have a third child. And I don’t want to talk about my internal struggle of being a good mom and making sure my non-mommy needs are being fulfilled.

No, what I want to talk about is that “awkward” age. You know, the one where you are in your 30’s and still using acne medicine, yet have discovered your need for a good under eye cream for all those fine lines. I canNOT believe that I am STILL going to the dermatologist for acne (I still see the same doctor or one of his kids who practice in the same office) and need prescription acne medicine. However, this is the first time I have ever needed a good moisturizer for dry skin and an under eye cream for all those fine lines. What is up with that?! I was feeling all down about it . . . until last week when I was at JoAnn Fabrics. I went there after the gym so I was all sweaty with scant traces of makeup. I was waiting in line to pay for my stuff, and two teenage boys were standing behind me complaining about how crabby the old ladies are who work there (which is true because they are about 108 years old and ALWAYS crabby). So here’s a summary of our conversation:

Teenage Boy 1: Wow! That lady was crabby!

Me: Yes, they are always crabby!

Teenage Boy 1: I am going to give her shit about being crabby.

Teenage Boy 2: No, you’re not.

Me: I’m sure your Mom didn’t raise you to be rude.

Teenage Boy 2: You need to be extra nice to her so she doesn’t have a reason to be rude to you.

Me: (Take my baby boy themed scrapbook paper out of my bag) Now, your Mom raised you right.

Teenage Boy 1: Wow! You don’t look like you are old enough to be a mom.

Me: I have two little ones at home.

Teenage Boy 2: What school do they go to?

Me: One is only 10 months old, and the other goes to preschool.

Teenage Boy 2: You have a long way to go.

Me: I used to teach Junior High. I know what is coming down the pipeline for me.

Teenage Boy 1: Where did you used to teach?

Me: (I state the name of the school)

Teenage Boy 1: Wow! I go to a high school in that same district.

And then it got weird. I felt like a little Mrs. Robinson-ish. Teenage Boy 1 wanted to continue the conversation and discuss why I was using my own bags and not opting for plastic, but I was kind of tuning out. I was happy to think, that to these two teenagers, I didn’t look like a mom that was at that “awkward” age of requiring both acne medicine and under eye cream for fine lines. (Did I mention that I was all post-workout gross?!) After the initial good feeling of being mistaken for a young(er) girl, I felt bad about why it should matter that I look young. I like getting older because that means I am getting wiser. And then I thought that it doesn’t hurt to be young -looking AND wise, now does it? I’ll ride that train as long as I can.

Now, some of you may think that this story is a fabrication because what teenagers hang out at JoAnn Fabrics? (Smart ones that think I look younger than I am, that’s who)! However, as strange as the story it, it is all completely true, (and yet totally random).

Anything random that made you feel good about yourself happen lately and like to share? I’d love to hear it!