Friday, February 27, 2009

Birthday Letter


Dear Wally,


Wow!  So, Sunday you turn 18.  18 years old! 6,570 days, give or take a few for all of the leap years, or 157,680 hours old.  How did you already get to be 157,680 hours old?  Sounds like a lot of time, I know. But, I can assure you, it has flown by faster than I would have liked it to.


I remember the day you were born........  Don't roll your eyes. Humor your 'ole mom, will ya?   You started to make your entrance into the world at 2:30 that morning.  Your Grandma called the police academy and asked them to tell your Dad it was time.  I started to get ready for your birth.  I went in and curled my hair and put on my makeup.  (I had seen photos of mothers looking a wreck after giving birth and I had no intentions of looking like that in our first picture together. I was 21 and stupid, of course.) Your Dad was four hours away and still beat us to the hospital!  Clearly, he was not as concerned about us being fashionable parents as I was.  He was wearing maroon sweatpants, black socks and a red ARMY sweatshirt.  What was he thinking? Anyway.....He called the house in a panic and your Grandma explained that we were still at home waiting for the contractions to come a little closer.  They were very mild and still pretty far apart.  I thought to myself that this whole birthing thing was going to be a piece of cake!  Boy, did you have me fooled!


We made our way to the hospital around 8 that morning.  I was excited and ready.  You, on the other hand, decided to take your sweet time in making your appearance.    I think you had decided that you weren't so sure about the whackjob of a mother (aka ME) that was about to raise you and decided to maybe just stay inside forever!


I remember watching the coverage of the Gulf War on the TV in the labor room.  Hoping your Dad would not be called back into the Army.  It was bad enough that he had decided to become a police officer, which scared me to no end, but at least he would be here, in the US, to help me with you.  And trust me, I needed all the help I could get! 


There are a couple of things that I did during your birthday that I'm not really proud of or have any explanation as to why I did them.  I blame it on the fact that I went through this whole thing with no drugs. AT ALL.  Not by my choice. Because when that first, really hard contraction hit, I started screaming for the drugs!  I was told I wasn't far enough along.  And then when I was far enough, it was too late to give me any. 


Anyway...I sorta put your Dad in a headlock.  It was in a moment of pain.  Really.  I whispered something to him and as he bent closer to hear me, I choked him and said if he ever did this to me again I would kill him.  Like I said, I'm not proud.


I may have also called the sweet, labor room nurse a bitch - under my breath, of course.  She kept telling me to take deep breathes and I kept telling her to find the doctor.  I wanted drugs dammit!  Sorry, again, I'm not proud.


Just as I was sure that you were finally ready, about 10:15 that night, I went into the bathroom - midcontraction, half stooped over - and touched up my makeup.  I had been a little sweaty and my hair had started to clump on my head, and I thought a little lipstick would do the trick to brighten up my haggard appearance.  Chalk that one up to being 21, stupid and no drugs.  Ok?


At 10:29 you finally came out.  You were this little, blue shriveled thing and the most adorable baby I had ever seen.  At that moment, all of the pain faded and I started to cry.  I had never experienced that feeling in my life.  To look at a person, for the first time, and have so much love for them. 


They wheeled me out of the delivery room.  By this time, I was sporting the Alice Cooper look.  My mascara had run down my face and I was a mess, to say the least!  I was glad we had forgotten the camera.  (This would be a prelude to the many important times in your life when I forgot the camera!)


The hospital saw the way we looked, me as the haggard rockstar and your dad as a fashion nightmare and still, they let us take you home!  Many times, throughout the years, I would try to take you back to that hospital and demand a refund!  There was the time you were helping your Dad "fix" the toilet and you whacked it with a wrench and busted the tank, water gushing everywhere......the night before your Grandma and Grandpa were coming to visit us at the new house for the first time.  Then there was the time that you showed your friend how you would use the mini-bat, that the smoke alarm salesmen left at your house, to bust out the window if ever there was a fire.  The times you and brother almost killed each other.  Why would you push him off of the sky fort? Just because he had a towel wrapped around his shoulder, he was not Superman! I also remember the first summer I let you and Beaver stay home alone, while I went to work.  The fights.  The calling, "Mom, Beaver won't.....", "Mom, Wally keeps........"  Remember when I had enough and told you I would be right there and hung up?  And you two little heathens locked the door on me?  Remember that?  Yeah, well I want to apologize.  When I finally made it in the house and muttered under my breathe that I couldn't wait until you were grown, and out of my house, I wasn't being serious. It was in the moment of a mother's frustration. 


I didn't know that you would grow up.  That you would grow into this amazing young man.  The young man that everyone wants as a son or wants their daughter to date (that's what your coach said, if he had a daughter.....).  I'm lucky enough, that you are my son.  You have a willingness to help others and put them first.  Don't ever lose that, son.  It speaks to the kind of person that you are, the character you have. 


Soon, you will graduate and be off to college.  You'll do what I had muttered under my breathe all those years ago - grow up and move away from home.  The tears that will come, aren't so much from pain, although it does hurt to see you go, they come from pride.  I am so proud of you.  I can't put into words how much you have brought to my life!  You'll understand. Someday.  When you have kids.


I love you, son.  Happy Birthday!




Friday, February 20, 2009

Beaver and a girl, sitting in tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g


Beaver, the 15 year old, asked if he could go to a friend's house tonight to watch a movie.  Let me clarify - a girl's house.  I was completely fine with this.  Really.  Until.......he asked if he could come home after baseball tryouts and take a shower BEFORE going to her house.  Beaver is boy.  Therefor, Beaver smells.  Smells don't bother Beaver.  In fact, he can't smell himself.  Which amazes me.  Because, well, he stinks!  But now he's asking if he can shower his sweaty 'lil stinky self before he goes to watch a movie - with.a.girl. 


Do you think it's time we have "the talk"?



(Beaver, if you ever read this, know that I love you more than life itself.  Even if you are a bit odorifous at times, I still love you very much.  Please don't drag me on to Dr. Phil and tell the whole world about how you grew up to have no self-esteem because your mother was always asking you if you took a shower and remembered to put deodorant on.  Ok, honey?  I love you tons. xoxo)

How much wine can a mother drink - when she finds out her son is growing up - and not be considered a lush?  Ah to hell with it.  I'm about to have an 18 year old son in less than 8 days, I'll turn 40 in less than 7 months and now my baby is falling for a girl!   I guess it's safe to assume that 'ole June will be slushy-lushy for many more months to come.

Thursday, February 19, 2009


Life, according to So Not June Cleaver:




Nuff said.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Senior moment


Liquid lunch, anyone?  Yeah, today is going that well!  Was off from work yesterday and I'm paying for it today.  Senior night for basketball is tonight.  Bad news: I used my lunch hour getting stuff done for tonight.  Stuff that other people were supposed to take care of!  But we're not going to dwell on that, now are we?  But......never mind.  Not even going to get into it. Good news: This is my last night to work the concession stand and take care of all of the crap that goes with that.  Hallelujah!  And June will not be volunteering for the booster club next year. Got it?


Wally's last game.  He's a senior, you know.  Or have I already mentioned that?  **Sniffle-sniffle**  Anyway.  Kind of a sad night.  But I'll be fine.  Really.  I'll be crying in the picture that they take when we escort Wally on to the court.  BUT, I won't be crying because it's his last game.  No, I'll be crying, because once again - due to 80 mph winds today - I will look like shit in yet another picture.  And maybe, I'll be just a little teary-eyed because it's not all about me, it is about Wally.  And him being one step closer to moving on.........


Someone pass the wine please,



PS Remind me to tell you later about what Ward did and why I'm so paranoid about crappy pictures of me. 

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Idiots R uS

Dear IRS,

Kiss my ass! Both cheeks! You flippin butthugs.

Up until now, we've had a pretty straight forward relationship. I get paid. You take a portion of my paycheck. At the end of the year, I file my taxes and take a portion back. Has worked fine for me for 31 years. (Holy crap I can't believe I have been paying taxes for that many years. That in itself calls for a glass of wine. Don't you think?)

So what the hell exactly happened this year? How come you took money from me every payday and now I still owe you more money? Hmm? I'll tell you how come! One of you freaking geniuses came up with a child tax credit. A nice little perk of being able to deduct $1,000 for each qualifying child. And you sweetened the deal. You didn't just let us deduct that $1,000 from our income. It came off of the taxes that we owed! Sa-weet! I kind of took it like you at least owed me this. I mean I did procreate and produce two more future taxpayers for you.

What would you suppose a a qualifying child would be? I suppose it would be a child who is still living in your house, attending high school, eating you out of house and home, one that you clothe, and is using your vehicle and your gas and who is not presently employed. Meaning he is not a taxpayer - YET!

But you guys? No you stupid sonafa, excuse me, you schmucks decide they have to be younger than 17! Which one of you melonheads came up with that age? Did your sons & daughters start supporting themselves at 17? Did I miss something? Should I have been helping Wally look for an apartment and a job at 16? So, by 17 he would be on his feet and ready to start paying taxes? Hmmm? I thought by letting him get a high school education, he would be prepared to head off to college and become a productive citizen. He's a pretty smart kid and you guys will get more money out of him if he's educated and has a higher paying job. Or didn't you figure that into your lil' tax credit.

So, I owe you this year. If you want me to pay you, get in line. I'll send you the money just as soon as I pay the increase in my property taxes and the doctors that need my deductible paid (even though I pay an arm and a leg for health insurance). And as soon as I figure out how to pay for the increase in gas prices and groceries, I'll be sure to pay you too.

Yours Truly,

So Not June Cleaver

PS If I should have addressed this letter to congress, if they're the ones that came up with this credit, would you be so kind as to forward this to them? And if it should have gone to congress instead of you, please accept my apologies and take my name off of your audit list! Thankyouverymuch.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Hang on, I'm coming!

I'm working on getting around to all of your blogs and commenting on them. I know how you just live for my comments. Right? You don't? Throw me a bone will ya? My life isn't the greatest (it isn't the worst, but it could definitely be better) and I could use all of "June we need you so much" to boost my poor, poor, pitiful me soul! Ok, so let's just pretend you all live for my comments. That's better. I will be by and play catch up. Make sure you have a glass of wine ready for me!

See you soon!