My kid started school a couple of weeks ago. Same Montessori school where I taught before I had Luca. You know, around the same time I used to shower and leave my house. Adventurous stuff like that.

The super skinny nice room parent sent me a super nice email welcoming me to the class and asking me if I had any questions.

I was about to reply back to her, something like, “Thanks so much! I used to work there. In the room next door.”

And then I stopped myself. Why not just tell her thanks so much!, and leave it at that?

Then I was all, “Why are you such a passive aggressive little bitch, Allison?

And then I was like,”Why are you attacking me again, me?”

AAAAAnyways.

I began to tell my husband this story last week over our anniversary dinner. Mid-way through,  he was all, “It’s because you’re a one-upper, babe.”

I saw him try and back peddle a little and then I saw him remember that it was my lady time of the month.

Confident that there would be no tapping of anyone’s ass,  he took a bite of steak and said it again. “You’re a one upper, babe.”

And of course I was all, “Hold the goddamn phone just a goddamn minute there, mister!” And just as I was about to argue with him it hit me…

Holy Fuck.

I am a one-upper!

Husband: Yeah, don’t you remember when we first starting dating? I would crack my back and you would try and crack yours louder right away? REMEMBER?!

Me: That’s what you are basing this name calling opinion on? I already told you that I would only crack my back because I saw you do it and it reminded me that I wanted to do it. GAH! Why are you being so mean to me?! It’s our anniversary. Do I look fat? It’s our anniversary. Whatever. I’m not even hungry. I wanna go home.

But, alas, this isn’t the first time I have thought this about myself. I’ve just never asked myself why.

Please let me explain, before you get all, “Why are you such an uppity whore?” on me.

It’s not like this:

Lesser person: I shit silver.

Me: I shit gold.

It’s more like this:

Other person: I shit silver.

Me: Oh. my.  Gawwwwd! I shit silver, toooooo! Weird! * high five *

I think, or at least hope, that we all have a tendency to do this at times. Cut people off because we are so anxious to talk about ourselves.

Not in a narcissistic way, necessarily.  More in the hopes of gaining someone’s approval and/or  friendship, by showing them our common ground. That we can identify with them. Empathize.

I get pretty nervous when I meet someone. I talk a huge game, and I have all these glorious, witty things I am going to say!

But, when the moment comes?

I. Got. Nothing.

My mouth gets dry. I talk A LOT of miles per hour about nothing. And I laugh loud and weird. My hair, that was perfectly blown out five minutes before, even starts looking like shit.  Sometimes I look fatter, too. And why in the hell did I pick this outfit? I can’t pull this look off!

It’s all of these insecurities quirks that lead to my occasional one-uppedness and tendency to talk too much.

* Sigh *

Don’t get me wrong, I think I am a great listener. You can come cry on my couch anytime. I love my friends and I am always there for them.

But, I need to listen more often in everyday situations.

I need to start hearing someone when we meet and they tell me their name. Instead of thinking of myself and what I am going to say next.

Because it’s true.

You wouldn’t worry so much about what others thought of you, if you knew how seldom they did.

Crap.  I think I totally just quoted Dr. Phil.

My husband and I have been together for seven years now.

We have been married four years today!

We had many fun adventures together before we were married (mawwied? yes, mawwied!). Hopping on planes,  traveling across the country for nights of great music and camping.

Vacations were easy then. Carefree. We didn’t have to worry about babysitters or, “OMG what if something happens and we don’t make it back home.“  This meant I could devote all my time waiting for my husband to fall asleep so I could take funny pictures of me harassing him.

Finally, after living in sin together in our cute little rental, the question was popped.

Spoiler alert.

I said yes!

I made him pose for cheesy couple pictures with me, which is so not his thing!!

I  tried to put into words just how much he means to me.  It was not easy.

On March 11th, of 2006, the big day arrived. Both of us taking on our usual roles. Him, the strong, silent and loving one. Me, the loud, loud and loud one (and very happy!).

We didn’t want a traditional wedding. We didn’t plan on a first dance.  Thankfully, our band surprised us with one. They played “What a Wonderful World”, and we danced. And I bawled. And it was so perfect. My world was wonderful because he was mine. And legally so, sucka!

We should have been off to Hawaii for our honeymoon the day after our wedding.  We missed our flight and had to stay an extra night in Houston. We refused to go back home, opting to check into a hotel and fly out the next day. We laughed it off and made the best of it. We were together.

We finally made it to Hawaii the next day. Precisely one day before I cracked my kneecap in half walking to the pool climbing a mountain.

He spent a week pushing me around the resort in a wheelchair, which I kind of liked because I am one lazy bitch.  I still wore my sexy honeymoon lingerie.  And though my strut was more of a hobble and, well, there were the crutches, it was perfect. We were together.

Oh, and I got us a shit ton of Vicodin for our vacation. Score!

Married life before we had our precious baby boy was so simple. We were still able to jet away to Mexico or Vegas to party with our friends. And laugh at them when they passed out from having too much to drink.

We decided to have a baby.  I got pregnant right away. I was thrilled and terrified.  I miscarried a month later.  My husband was amazing.  He was everything I needed.

Except for a baby.

We got pregnant again the very next month! I was thrilled and terrified. And, apparently, I blamed everything on George W. Bush.

I began having contractions at 27 weeks. I was in the hospital for 3 days and at home under house arrest for 10 weeks.  I had a subcutaneous IV in my thigh, which delivered medicine to slow my contractions. I pretty much would have gone insane without my husband there. I thought this was the worst thing in the world. Did I really want to be a mom? I was not sure why I was even doing it.  Until I met him….

Then I realized I would have walked through hell and back to get to that moment.

I will never forget my husband’s face the first time he met our son.  He said to him, “Hey buddy!!!” with so much joy in his voice and such a smile on his face, I thought his head would explode. It takes my breath away and makes me cry to this day when I hear that “Hey buddy” in my head. My son is so lucky to have him as a daddy.

Ten days after that perfect day, the worst thing in the world happened. I lost four of the most important people in my life.

I have no idea how I would have made it through this without my husband. Amazing husband + Zoloft = you will survive, yo. He just has a way of calming me down. His presence alone does it. No words are really needed.

Putting up with me is not always easy. I am dramatic. I am stubborn. I can be really defensive. I talk way too much. I leave cabinet doors  and drawers open all over the house. I am crazy disorganized and a total scatterbrain. I have panic attacks on airplanes. Then I drink too much on said airplane.  I am pretty much like having a second child sometimes.

But, hey, when I fuck up,  I bake things like this.

Sometimes I embarrass him. I am loud. I say inappropriate things. It’s sometimes hard for me to be serious. I will also cop a feel any chance I get.

We sure have made ourselves a beautiful little family. I love us so much. I can’t believe this is my life.

Eventually, I do want to add to it. But, not quite yet. I want to enjoy this. The right now. It will never be the three of us again.

I love my husband way more than I think he knows. I hope I tell him enough. I mean, I tell him I love him all the time, but do I show it like I did in the beginning?  The sweet things I used to do for him daily seem to get put on the back-burner way too often.  And it’s not because I don’t want to do them, but because I am still figuring out this crazy mom/wife/me juggling act. Cliché, much?

When I first met my husband, an overwhelming feeling of peace came over me. It was hard to explain.

Our dog, Greta, used to do this thing.  At the end of the day she would jump on the bed, curl up in a little bawl and let out a deep sigh of contentment, as if she was thinking, “Thank God I made it here.”

This is how I was finally able to explain how my husband made me feel.  I told him once that he made me do the “Greta sigh”.

We had our wedding bands engraved when we got married. Mine says, “Even breathing felt…”, and his says, “Like something new.”

Exactly.

Thank God I made it here.

The summer before my freshman year of high school, my mom moved my enormous breasts and I from Tyler, Texas, eight hours away, to Laredo, Texas.

She was born and raised in Laredo. After my parents got divorced, she was pulled back home, emotionally,  wanting to be closer to her parents and siblings.

Quick geography lesson, guys.

Not that I am super awesome at geography or anything.  In fact, I am so un-awesome at geography that I cheated on a United States map test my sophomore year of high school. The teacher found the cheat note at the end of the day, on the floor. He didn’t know to whom it belonged and, since no one fessed up, all of his classes had to take the goddamn map test over. I mean,  it only consisted of labeling the how ever many states there are and stuff. But still.

Sorry guys.  It was me.  Such a douche bag move.

Anyways, where was I?

Ugh, this Bachelor wedding on TV is making me want to stab myself in the eyes.

Wait, what?

Right.  Geography.

* Ahem *

Tyler is in East Texas. Lots of thick Texas accents there.  Conservative.  It was  a dry county when I lived there. This meant you had to drive down a country highway, to the next county over, if you wanted to buy booze.  Not that any of this matters.  I so wasn’t drinking yet.   I’m just trying to give you an idea of how white it is in Tyler.

Laredo sits eight hours south of Tyler,  right on the U.S./Mexico border. My house was ten minutes from Mexico.  There are cacti there. It’s hot as balls. Lots of people with thick, Mexican accents. Not only is it not a dry county, its dripping wet.  Like , for all practical purposes, no drinking age wet. Not that any of this matters. I am just trying to give you an idea of how not white it is in Laredo.

Cue the big move announcement.  Cue the fourteen year old drama.

You are ruining my life, mom! Gah!

You are moving me away from the boy man I am going to marry, Mom!

I hate you!

I ran away for like an hour. Down the street. I remember hiding along the side of a house, with my trash bag satchel in tow. I cried. I got hungry. I went home.

Apparently all that shit talking got me nowhere, but Laredo. We moved there soon after middle school ended and holy culture shock, batman!

I was a white, blonde, huge big breasted, little Texas country girl  And holy hell did I sound like it, y’all.

All my vowel sounds were long.

Good n-eye-ght.  Eye am fixin’ to go to sleep.

Good-bEYE!

I stuck out more than common sense at a TeaBagger Convention!

I kid! I kid!

Fast forward to the first party of the new school year!

Lots of people were there,  from freshman to seniors. It was at someone’s house. All the  senior guys were grilling outside. We were all dropping it like it was hot, when one of them called me “Cheech”.

I laughed and rerolled my jeans. In my head, I was all, “that totes must mean fine lookin’ white girl! Or something supah awesome like that! Thank God I wore my Wet N Wild gloss and these jeans up to my chin, yo!”

WRONG!

Turned out, “cheech” is short for”chichona”!

What does chichona mean you ask?

* Waaaait foooor iiiit! *

“BIG TITS”.

And the name spread. Like a disgusting, itchy case of something gross.

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like they were intentionally, “Yo, gimme your motherfuckin lunch money, goddamn Cheech, before I push your goddamn face in your stupid fucking locker”, mean to me.

No, no no! They were accepting.  And pretty nice, actually.  It was more like, “Heya, Cheech! Wanna sit with us at lunch today?! “or “Cheech!!! What flavor Boone’s bottles should we get? Strawberry Hill all the way right!? FUCKING CHEECH!!! See ya later!”

I laughed. I hated it.

I always laughed, though. Harder when I was nervous.  I still do.

And I was so nervous. Afraid if I said something, they would no longer like the new girl  and I would be kicked out of the cool kids club.

Holy grow a pair, Allison!

They probably would have stopped immediately, if I had only asked. But not only did I not ask, I acted like it didn’t bother me in the least.

To make a short story long, I finally drank got up the nerve to tell everyone to stop calling me that and, eventually, they did.  It didn’t happen over night, though. You could still hear the occasional, “HEY CHEECH! WHAT UUUUUP!” echoing down the hall.

Gradually, I went from “Cheech” to “The freshmen formerly known as Cheech” and, finally, back to “Allison”.

No harm. No foul.  I am over it and can totally laugh about it now. But, my heart does ache a little when I think about 14 year old Allison. Shit, it even aches when I think of 24 year old, Allison. The confidence did not come easy to her, but it finally did. For the most part, anyways.  She is still a work in progress.

* Moving right along *

My senior year, rather than asking my mom to get me a car for graduation, I begged for a breast reduction.

And not even because of the whole cheech thing.

Really, I just didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin. I always thought, “How cool would it be to have people look at my face and stuff when they talk to me?!”

And fourteen years later, two cup sizes smaller, they do!

*Sigh*

Teenage angst. It’s a bitch, ya’ll.

I’m just glad no one called me “Manos grandes” or something like that. It would have been a major drag to have had to chop off my hands.