Say It Out Loud

Hiatus

2010-12-30T20:06:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure there are absolutely no followers of ths blog still out there. to say I have neglected it is an understatement. More like abandonment, right? Sad part is I love to write and blather on about some times heavy stuff and others just fluff or fodder. It's not that I haven't had anything going on, it's just that I lost my mojo for a bit. Not in a bad way, just in a way that left the me without stuff that I felt compelled to share.

So if you're still out there, let me know and I plan to reengage this year. I suppose this could be my first resolution of 2011.

Boys To Men

2010-07-06T18:34:00.000-07:00

I was raised with four brothers, three older and one younger. I loved it and I truly believe it helped shape my character in multiple ways. I also think it gave me the ability to relate to men and form great friendships with them throughout my life. Now, as a mother of two sons, I think I do a pretty good job of relating to my sons and understanding some of where they are coming from. For example, I love all things gross, I enjoy a good pillow fight and I can give a wet willy better than most (and that's the mild stuff).

Now that I am a single mom I think even more about raising my boys to be good guys. I want them to be strong yet not afraid to express themselves. I want them to be masculine, but also be able to appreciate simple beauty. I want them to lead, but not to have to be in control all the time. But most of all I want to raise them to have great relationships with women, friendships and romantic alike. But how do I do that?

As an adult, I can see that my brothers, all four of them, are really good guys. So my parents did something right, but what? I mean my childhood was tumultuous, my parents' relationship was not ideal by any stretch and my dad was (is) a wimp. I mean it, he was no role model of masculinity. But the good thing is that he was never afraid to hug and kiss us. To this day, he will still kiss us all goodbye. I'm pretty sure my brothers had a very open relationship with my mom and felt that they could talk to her about anything. I witnessed many discussions where my mom walked them through relationship advice and soothed a broken heart or two. I saw openness and kindness that set the stage for respectful relationships with women. My mom was also a very strong woman. Not in the "balls in your pocket" way, but in a way that my brothers learned to appreciate and not be intimidated by. And to understand that it's ok for women to be strong, opinionated and deserving of respect.

Part of the reason I got out of my marriage was to give my sons a fighting chance at having decent relationships with women as they grow up. I did not want them to model the extreme dysfunction I had with their father. In fact, as I made the decision to leave the marriage, this was one of the most powerful motivators (that and preserving my own sanity, sense of self and a deep desire for a mutually respecting partnership with a man).

So I love my sons as much as possible, hug them as much as possible, but am also trying to teach them to pull their own weight, be respectful of me and to express how they really feel to resolve conflict.

When my oldest was young we read a quote in a book that set the stage for how I'd like my boys to think. "It is better to be a kind man than a powerful man." And we discuss what that means on a regular basis. No, I don't want them to be wimps, but there is a balance between strength and sensitivity. I know it's attainable. I hope I can lay the right foundation for them.

Last One to the Twilight Party

2010-05-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

I watched "Twilight: New Moon" last night with the guys. The only thing I knew before it started is:
1. It's about vampires.
2. People (mostly women) are addicted to the books. Not just teenagers either. Grown women.

But I was desperate for some quasi-decent movie to watch on-demand with Wild Man and Bubba. From the very start I was totally lost, asking all kinds of questions. "Does anyone else know he's a vampire? Why is he so pale? Don't all the other kids notice how ghostly, obviously white he is? Is he her boyfriend? Who's the other dude who loves her? What's their relationship?" You get the picture.

My oldest, tolerated the questions and tried to answer what he knew. The knowledge he gained was in the bus line at middle school from the girls he overhears squealing about it.

I have to say I was not impressed. First of all, this is all about a young girl who has no identity without her man, the vampire. Then when he leaves her "for her own good," she has no identity until another man (this one is a werewolf, I might add) becomes obsessively in love with her. WTF? What are we teaching the young women out there with this crap? I was raised on "Grease," "Pretty in Pink," and "St. Elmo's Fire." All with really positive messages for young women. As if...

I'll go put away my soapbox now.

Spell Check???

2010-03-31T18:31:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged in a while and apparantly there have been upgrades to the system. I can do cool stuff with fonts and formatting and something called a jump break (WTF?), but I can't find the GD spell check. I am a hideious (see what I mean?) speller.

Help!

ps how many spelling errors can you find in this alone?

Sausage

2010-02-26T17:44:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of time with two adolescent boys and a 7-year old. Lately they have been obsessed with the notion of sausage. Well I guess I am somewhat to blame because one time I just happened to walk out of the kitchen with a Hillshire Farms Kelbasa hanging out of my jeans - and not out of the back.

Of course that resulted in milk blowing out the nose of these three young boys and my on-going torture. They can barely be around me without mentioning "sausage," giggle, snort, gafaw... And of course they are connecting their own "sausage" with all of it, but the worst was when the little one asked if I wanted my boyfriend's sausage.

I had to lie to the kid.

Just Snow Bound

2010-02-10T19:25:00.000-08:00

Last post I had a few profound comments as I was snow bound and my Maggie was still in the hospital. Well she made it home safely and now she and I are snow bound as the second, or maybe it's the third, huge snow storm pounds our area. We have more snow this year than Maine!

The boys are with their Dad so it's just us girls, and the dog of course. It's been a nice quiet day and we even both took naps. But here's the real problem:

I AM EATING TOO MUCH!!!

I wish I was one of those people who forgot to run to the store and only has one can of tuna, an old box of mac n' cheese and the summer sausage my dad sent for Christmas from Hickory Farms in my cupboard. Noooooo, that's not my house. Me? I got lots o' stuff and I have been stuffing myself today. Who cares if I did 3 miles on the treadmill this morning? Who cares if I shoveled snow until I was huffing and sweating? Does not count since I had an afternoon date with a bottomless bag of Frito's, oh and then I had a few chocolate covered cherries and don't forget lunch and dinner! I didn't have breakfast, but still I exceeded my weekly allotment of calories in just this one day.

In addition, I also watched TV. A lot of TV. I even got to watch re-runs of Wife Swap. And yes, I was eating the Frito's while watching that dramatic tour De force. Then I watched a cute chic flick, Love Happens. It was way heavier than I expected so I lightened up with American Idol. I feel so dirty. Oh, and fat too.

Snow Bound and Trusting

2010-02-06T11:17:00.000-08:00

So if any of you have seen a weather map you know we got dumped on here in PA and the snow is just beginning to slow. So Maggie is in the capable hands of the nursing team at duPont hoospital without me today. I was relieved to find that her nurse, Katy, made it in today despite the snow. She was with Maggie yesterday and knows her (and what I want for her) quite well.

I made it to the hospital after work to see my girl last night and give Susan a ride home. Maggie got to spend the entire day with her wonderful Susan. Susan is truly the only other person that knows Maggie as well as I do. In fact, I'd even say she knows her better than I do, or at least in a different, equally deep way. She has been one of the most precious gifts Maggie has brought in to my life. In fact, I tribute so much of Maggie's health and happiness to Susan's unwavering dedication to her in the last five years. (In fact a lot of my own mental health and happiness I give credit to Susan for too).

Susan accompanies me to most doctor's appointments and even went to the initial surgical consult with Dr. Dabney with me for this procedure. I trust her implicitly.And the thing is, she truly loves Maggie. And Maggie feel the same way about her.

It's so hard to see how my child feels or communicates, but I see it with Susan - a genuine connection. I see it with her teachers too. These connections and dedication allow me to let go just enough to stay sane. The burden is co-shouldered and that allows me to persevere longer. Maggie has taught me to let go just enough to stay connected to her. If I get too close, I lose perspective and grief creeps back in. So today, while I am snow bound, I am letting the nurses at duPont do their job and I am ok with it, knowing that respite, even forced by mother nature, is critical to my ability to care for her in the best way possible.

Katy says she had a good morning hanging out in her chair at the nurses station and is now taking a rest watching a movie with her trusted Ellie by her side.

So hopefully the snow will slow, the plows will clear the path and I will get to her tomorrow morning just a bit more energized for what lies ahead in her homecoming.

Mim

2010-01-28T15:01:00.001-08:00

Sometimes people support us in ways we never expect. I got an email from a dear friend yesterday who has been sending all kinds of positive karma out to Maggie and me as we go through this medical and emotional journey.

My friend has a little girl, Carly, who is about six months younger than Maggie. Had Maggie been born ok, I imagine they may have been great friends, just like their moms. But life lays different challenges on us and that was not meant to be.

Interestingly, this friend and her daughter live across the country and don't really even know Maggie, excepet through my recollections of her.

So yesterday this email came in from the two of them:

"Carly has been sending positive energy to Maggie in a different way. Carly
made up an imaginary friend/bird that is always with her ... born mysteriously
from a gum ball. A blue gum ball. Her name is Viv; she's a gum ball bird (also
known as a G.B.B.) She is a very unique creature. Because she was born from
a gum ball she is so very tiny. And fragile. She is blue with little green fuzz on
her head and has a little orange beak. Sometimes Carly is able to get through
a rough day or time just knowing that Viv is with her.

Carly thinks that Maggie could use her own Viv right now (so she's manifested
one for her that's there with her even as we speak) Maggie's G.B.B. is named,
Mim. She was born from a pink gum ball. She is bright orange with a little pink
tummy. She has a little green puff on the top of her head. Mim, like Viv, is so
very tiny and always with Maggie. Mim especially likes perching on Maggie's
sunglasses when she wears them! Otherwise Mim likes to hang out in and around
Maggie's beautiful strawberry hair. We think that Mim will help Maggie through
the roughness of today and the coming weeks."

Mim is also helping Mom through the roughness of today.

The New Ritz Carlton

2010-01-28T14:35:00.000-08:00

I have been writing all the live long day today, so this will be short. My gal, Maggie had major surgery today and if you connect to this link you can learn all about it.

This has been a long time coming, but it went as well as to be expected. She is now in the ICU at our favorite children's hospital and it is like the Ritz. I am serious. They are checking you every minute, making sure your every need is met. Ok, I guess you have to when it's a serious health condition, but I'm just sayin'

I will rest easier tonight knowing she's in the deluxe suite with her own personal concierge.

Seriously, it's been a helluva day...

TWENTY TEN

2010-01-20T17:29:00.000-08:00

Ok so I have been absent. Actually more than absent. I have totally neglected my blog and I'm certain I have no more followers left. I have a ton of blogs...in my head. I write them while I commute to work, while I wait at doctor's appointments, in the dark in bed at night, in meetings, and on and on.

Oh any way, I'm back with my top ten list for 2010 of things I have learned and want to pass along. This is valuable stuff.

10. Never underestimate the power of a good wax, even if it leaves you with a bag of frozen corn on your crotch.

9. A new pair of shoes really can make your day, especially a pair of boots, maybe a pair you have coveted from a distance for years that now sit proudly in your closet.

8. Chicks are great. Plain and simple, women rock.

7. A great sex life can make all the difference. DUH!

6. Never, and I mean, NEVER use the Monostat one day treatment. Unless of course you want your va-jay-jay to resemble a certain Looney Toons Character whose initials are DD.

5. It's ok to look at your pre-teen son's private parts, if absolutely necessary (like he is crying in pain and there is not an appropriate male to do the job around).

4. You can always replace your vibrator. You can't get through airport security so easily with one in your bag.

3. Exercise is better than therapy. I dare you, in fact, I double-dog-dare you to try it. When you have the mother of all shitty days, get on the tread mill and stick it out for 30 minutes. I guarantee (GAH-RUN-TEEE)you will feel better after. I have tested this theory for the last four years and it always works.

2. Change is good, necesary and often painful as hell, but worth it.

1. Invest in yourself. Trust yourself. Take care of yourself. Let yourself be loved.

And here's a bonus, you simply can't do it all. Be one with that.

Short 'n Sweet

2010-01-08T09:40:00.000-08:00

There comes a point in your life when you realize:

Who matters,
Who never did,
Who won't anymore...
And who always will.
So, don't worry about people from your past,
There's a reason why they didn't make it to your future.

True Religion

2009-12-23T09:01:00.000-08:00

If you follow this blog, you know I am not religious. I am spiritual, but not religious. I am not sure what I believe about God and Heaven and how it all came to be. I do believe that religious figures have set examples for us to guide the choices we make for ourselves and religious traditions provide ample opportunity to gather with those we love to celebrate. They help us to stop, if even briefly, to join in. I don't know that Christmas has ever meant more than that to me. And don't get me wrong, the tradition and the gathering are very important to me, but I haven't ever held Christmas as a deeply religious opportunity for me.

My daughter attends the Overbrook School for the Blind in Philadelphia. It is a beautiful, walled campus that sits in between urban West Philly and the beginning of Philadelphia's Main Line, the old, moneyed neighborhoods. She has gone there since she was three years old, and will stay there until she "graduates" at 18 or 21. It is a special place that dedicates itself to helping visually impaired and handicapped kids. When I walk in the gates of the campus, I often feel as if I am entering "normal," for Maggie, me and other kids and families like ours. It is practically the only place we don't stick out, but fit right in and more importantly are welcomed with open arms, minds and hearts.

Each year they put on a Christmas pageant of sorts. They have a lovely auditorium, complete with a big stage and a red velvet curtain that swishes open and shut after each performance. Invariably some kid gets stuck in the curtain and a staff member has to go in and fish them out. They put together a show that allows the students to experience holiday tradition, music and performance. They create an atmosphere of expression and inclusion for kids who are often left out. Every time I go, I am amazed at the depth of the dedication from the staff and the pride that emanates from each child as they participate in their particular number.

Yesterday there were Christmas carols from the elementary choir, which consisted of about ten children singing their hearts out, off-key and rocking back and forth in a way that is consistent with the motion of many handicapped kids. The music director stays on stage and often sings right in a child's ear to help him remember the lyrics or the melody. I was impressed that the kids could stand in one place for so long and then noticed when one began to stray in the middle of Santa Claus is Coming to Town, an adult arm appeared from behind the group to pull him back in. When the bells were handed out for the big Jingle Bells finish, one little boy didn't like all that noise in his ear, so he turned right around to the kid behind him and just stopped his arm. The other kid didn't seem to mind so much. There were two young gentlemen from the high school division who played the piano beautifully. They were blind and clearly had learned to play by ear. One in particular played the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies that brought tears to my eyes. Next came the middle school ensemble choir, a somewhat motley crew with a contagious warmth and enthusiasm . Only about seven of them, but they rocked out to a medley which included a rap-like version of Frosty the Snowman. When it was time for his solo, one young man reached out his hand in to mid air waiting for the mic to be placed in it by the Choral Director. It struck me that the music teacher on stage with his small group, belting out songs, off key and off beat,has dedicated his life to helping these special children find their voices. He bounced back and forth from each student helping them with the lyrics or with the percussion or simply to hold their hand if they were tentative. If I had to describe kindness, that image would suffice.

Maggie's big number was the finale. I have learned over the years that they find a way for non-verbal, non-ambulatory, wheelchair-bound kids to participate. The teachers are incredibly creative this way. Maggie can't speak much less sing, and neither can most of her classmates. Her skit was about a reindeer revolution. Santa's reindeer were unhappy because they do all the work and he gets all the credit. There were eight wheelchairs each outfitted with a huge cut out reindeer, decorated and named. Maggie was Comet. The story is insignificant to the message here though. She was included and it was just normal for her to be pushed around the stage in her wheelchair wearing her Christmas best clothes and her lopsided grin. She sort of flaps her right arm for no good reason, but it looked like she was keeping time with the beat. As she took her "bow," I noticed her teacher ever so lightly stroking her neck. It was a natural, almost unintentional gesture. Again, kindness, acceptance, sincerity.

This special place accepts and loves my child and all the children they serve. They create a safe haven, a place where our kids are "normal." I am reminded of the kindness that is possible and the great potential for a pure and unconditional love. I was humbled in the face of all that I stood witness to. To say that I had a spiritual experience would not cover the depth of all that happened in that one hour of my day.

The local news station was there. Click here to see their coverage of the event.

Blessings are often hidden as burdens. This time of year helps us to recognize the difference.

The Special Mother

2009-11-23T18:45:00.000-08:00

Recently I gave a speech at a Bayada Homecare Nurses in service day in Delaware. It's part of what I do as the founder of parentspeak. Not sure I've ever blogged about it, but it's an organization of sorts that I started five years ago with a dear friend, who is also a mother of a severely neurologically impaired child.

We began our journey in an effort to help medical and educational professionals who help our kids. We developed a presentation that gives deep insight into what it's like to be a parent of a special needs child like ours. If you remember, I tried early on to get our kids noticed by writing to Oprah, but was denied. In hindsight, I don't think the message at the time was clear enough for Oprah, nor was my own head or heart for that matter.

Now we are dedicated to providing insight in to our lives under the premise that if you know us, as parents, you will be better able to help our children. We are the gatekeepers to our children and their care demands supreme partnership. If we can't partner with those who help our kids then we believe their care will be impacted. It's a bit tough to explain here, but suffice to say that we have given the speech for five years now to at major children's hospitals, trade shows semonars, annual conferences, etc. Our audiences have been as large as 500 (at a keynote address) and as few as 25 attending continuing education credit class. We don't have a website, we don't get paid, we don't promote. We just get our gigs by word of mouth. And that works for us.

So a few weeks ago, I gave the speech without my partner because her kids were sick. The audience on that day was about 100, mostly nurses, some physical/occupational therapists, a few administrators and a handful of parents of special needs kids.

After the presentation, a woman approached me and said, "God bless you. My granddaughter has special needs and we are all struggling." She began to get choked up and then asked for my address. She said she wanted to mail me something she thought I would appreciate. I gave her my address and she gave me a big hug, with tears in her eyes again she said, "Thank you. Really, thank you so much."

About a week later the following arrived in my mail.

November 6, 2009

Dear Molly:
My name is Pattie and I briefly spoke with you on Thursday, November 5, after your talk at the University of Delaware seminar for Bayada. I told you that I have something for you to read and to pass it along to your partner. You can also make copies for all the other parents who might need some inspiration and words of encouragement and support.

You are a true inspiration of dedication to ALL mothers.

May God bless you and your family and especially your little angel, Maggie.

Sincerely,
Patti

Here is what she sent.

The Special Mother
by Erma Bombeck

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressures and a couple by habit.

This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how mothers of handicapped children are chosen?

Somehow I visualize God hovering over earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As He observes, He instructs His angels to make notes in a giant ledger.

"Armstrong, Beth; son. Patron saint...give her Gerard. He's used to profanity."

"Forrest, Marjorie; daughter. Patron saint, Cecelia."

"Rutledge, Carrie; twins. Patron saint, Matthew."

Finally He passes a name to an angel and smiles, "Give her a handicapped child."

The angel is curious. "Why this one God? She's so happy."

"Exactly," smiles God, "Could I give a handicapped child to a mother who does not know laughter? That would be cruel."

"But has she patience?" asks the angel.

"I don't want her to have too much patience or she will drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wears off, she'll handle it."

"I watched her today. She has that feeling of self and independence that is so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I'm going to give her has her own world. She has to make her live in her world and that's not going to be easy."

"But, Lord, I don't think she even believes in you." God smiles, "No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect - she has just enough selfishness." The angel gasps - "selfishness? is that a virtue?"

God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she'll never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn't realize it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a 'spoken word'". She will never consider a "step" ordinary. When her child says 'Momma' for the first time, she will be present at a miracle, and will know it!"

"I will permit her to see clearly the things I see...ignorance, cruelty, prejudice....and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life, because she is doing My work as surely as if she is here by My side".

"And what about her Patron saint?" asks the angel, his pen poised in mid-air.

God smiles, "A mirror will suffice."

Please pass this on to anyone who may benefit from it. Even now, nearly eleven years after Maggie's birth (and when I think I have adjusted), I still grieve. This was wonderful for me to read.

11 Lipsticks. 22 Black Boots.

2009-11-21T13:53:00.000-08:00

It's simple really. All women carry lots of lipsticks in their purse right? The other day I went to grab mine and realized I practically had an entire Sephoria lip end aisle display. So I counted. Crammed into my petite makeup bag were 11 lip stick items. Some were actual tubes of lipstick, others were glosses, lip liners, an all day, ever last type of lip paint and of course a tub of Carmex for good measure. WHAT'S. WITH. THAT?

Well if you're a female, you know what's with that. My guy was amazed and couldn't believe I needed all of those at my disposal. Well you just do. Some days you need a bit of red, other days nude is where you are, at night maybe a bit of shimmer, after the gym a swipe of Carmex. I am the reason why the drug store is laden with cosmetics. And guess what? I think it's my birth right as a female. There is nothing like getting a spanking new tube of lip stuff. Try it on, smack,smack.

When my guy asked why so many, I said "Well, it's the same reason I have more than one pair of black boots. You just need the right pair."

"Well how many do you have?"

"Not sure. Let me count." So I disappear into my closet and start counting.

I reappear and claim, with pride I might add, "I have 12 different pairs of black boots." Umm, I guess I've had a boot thing for a while, but I always buy them on sale. (LOL). And if you include brown boots, Uggs (or Ugg knock-offs) and a pair of beat up ten-year old riding boots, I have a total of 34 pairs of boots.

I think I have a problem. I need the number for BA, Bootaholics Anonymous.

Desperate Measures for Desperate Times

2009-11-19T18:39:00.000-08:00

I know the job market sucks. You can't pick up a paper without reading about the horrific job market. (Who the hell picks up a paper anymore? But you know what I mean.) In my job I get lots and lots of resumes and solicitations for interviews. Yesterday the following email landed in my inbox. I've seen nothing like this in my 25 years in business.

Subject: Inquiry

When I was a kid, in my little town in Central Italy, I often wondered about my future. I enjoyed watching commercials and couldn’t be removed from my parents’ couch. I spent hours amazed in front of the television. It was clear that I would become either an advertiser or the owner of all the TV stations as well the Italian’s Premier. Well, unfortunately, somebody had the latter idea so that left the advertising field. Years went by. I started high school thinking I could be a great person in the world . I finished high school and found out that the world was so unfair I had to do something about it. Therefore I decided to study Political Science. My grandpa always said “Be as far as you can from stadiums and politics”. Well, at least I half-listened to him. A few years more went by and I wished I had fully listened to him. Since then, I’ve watched thousands of movies because of my cinemania, I learned how to speak English because of my Californian wife and I learned to speak French because everyone must do something completely useless in their lives and that was mine. After I obtained my degree I flew to the United States where I worked in a few companies, had several barbecues and found out that “fag” doesn’t mean cigarette. I had thought Italy would increase my creativity so I packed everything and left America. The only thing Italy increased was my stress.

Now I am stranded, with my trusty wife and a little diaper consumer. Because of my daughter’s young age and of the intricate bureaucracy I have to stay here for a while more. Finding a job in my country is easy as finding a Mormon in West Hollywood and that’s the reason I am writing to you.

I have ideas. Who hasn’t? Some of mine may be good. If this long distance relationship doesn’t scare you I am willing to be tested.
Waiting for your answer, I will pray for your karma.

Sincerely,

I can't decide if this guy wants a date or a job.

The Last Frontier

2009-11-13T16:25:00.000-08:00

Think about it. It's virtually impossible to have 100% quiet time, alone time, reflection time, whatever time anymore. You know why? We all carry some sort of mobile device we are addicted to. We all have computers in our homes that suck us in (like what is happening to me at this very minute), we have technology to keep us busy, busy, busy. And we love it. And I'd venture to guess, we hate it all at the same time.

Today I was swimming laps at my local YMCA. I love to swim because it really is a solitary sport that forces you to hang with yourself without any disruptions. It's just you, the water and your breathing. The monotony of it forces you to unwind. I guess you could say that about running or biking or whatever solo exercise you may engage in. Except today I had my waterproof iPod Nano sport arm band on that allowed me to listen to whatever music I wanted to while I swam back and forth and back and forth.

Used to be that I swam in quiet. Until last year when I got my special Nano holder. I love music to keep me motivated while I work out. Literally, on tough days I crank up the theme form Rocky ( I shit you not!). I digress...

So while I cheated in my swimming solitude today, I thought about how we can barely force ourselves to escape it all. Take a walk down any city street and you will see 9 out of 10 people on their cell phones. Ride up a few floors in an elevator and someone is checking their email. Go to a movie, the guy next to you is sending texts with his sound off, but still...

The other day I went on a first grade field trip to an apple orchard with my son. I made a conscious decision to leave my iPhone in my car at the school while I got on the bus, knowing full well that I would be parted from it for over six hours. I owed that to my son. My kids are constantly sharing "mommy time" with my stinking iPhone. My excuse is that I have to have it for work. In fact, work pays for it, so I have to be accessible, right? Truth is that it's just rude. Rude to my kids, rude to the poor woman at the check out at the drug store who is trying to help me while I gab away with someone, rude to me. Rude to expect me to be available 24x7. But those are the cold hard facts.

So I was thinking about where the last frontiers of "inaccessibility" are. This doesn't include when you simply have no cell service. So I was thinking swimming (if you don't cheat with a Nano), the dentist's office (you really can't talk, text, email with a drill going or during a teeth cleaning), and well I can't think of any others. Seriously, I have asked many people what they think and no one can come up with any place else.

Any ideas? And yes, I have texted while getting a bikini wax. TMI, I know, but in case you were going to suggest that.

Dirty Little Secret

2009-11-07T13:37:00.000-08:00

I have to come clean. I just do.

I love McDonald's.

Not everything about it, but mostly the drive-through. I am more health conscious than most. I feed my kids much better than the average American Mom. And it's not that I like taking them to McDonald's. It's that I like to go. Usually somewhere between Noon and 1 PM to get my daily dose of Diet Coke. It's kind of sad, but it's a treat for me. I like the large, gallon-sized cup with lots of ice and the fat straw. It has to come out of the fountain also. I will refuse a Diet Coke if I don't have a tall glass with ice, preferably with a straw. I have been known to explain to my kids when they exclaim, "Why do you get something to drink and we don't? You said soda is bad for you."

"Becasue I am the mommy. That's why."

And I do like the occasional cheeseburger. How can you beat it for a buck, right? Oh and if I am cleansing my soul here, I might as well admit I love the fries too, although I usually can never bring myself to order them for me, but prefer to steal them from one of my kids. Unless of course I go whole hog and get a "value meal" and you have to agree to the fries cause it's such a good deal.

So there it is.

My Cheating Ways

2009-10-29T17:57:00.000-07:00

Aha! You guys thought I fell off the face of the earth. Well just about, my son was sick, I was sick, then Miss Maggie got sick and landed in the hospital for 7 days. Then work blew up and is still over the top. And oh yeah, we all had swine flu.

In the midst of all this I had to get a little wax job. You've seen my prior posts (Fire in the Hole!) and know that I believe waxing is a necessary evil. I am also fiercely loyal to my expert waxer. Really she does a good job, well except the last time when she almost ripped off part of my cookie (that's code for va-jay-jay). Anyway I needed some serious landscaping. It all went to hell with all the other crazy stuff that took precedent, like my children's health and my career.

So I stopped by the salon to get an appointment with my girl. At the desk they told me she was out with a torn rotator cuff. Duh! I know how she tore it - by using all her strength to nearly tear out my crotch. Still it's tough to get used to someone else putting their face within five inches of your cookie. The salon offered to set me up with a new aesthetician. I truly had no choice. So I went to see a new woman the next day who was actually lovely, virtually pain free and really fastidious about cleanliness. All good things for a bikini wax. So as I'm in there enjoying for the first time my bikini wax (well, enjoying is an over statement, but I wasn't levitating toward the ceiling after each rip). So as she finished up I was thinking I may have found my new girl! I figure by the time my old one comes back in six weeks, maybe she will have forgotten me. So I trot happily out to the desk to pay the tab and who is at the desk but my old waxer. She gives me a big hug and a kiss on the check, shows me her shoulder where she had surgery and is generally happy to see me. I act like I don't really know the new girl who has escorted me out. I tell my old girl, "Oh I'm so happy to see you!" (not really, in fact I feel busted). But we chit chat about this and that and i bumble through my excuse about getting a wax without her. Something like, "Oh what was I to do? You are out for the next six weeks." She seems not to mind, but is happy to see all of her friends at the salon. We kiss-kiss goodbye with promises of "see you when you return."

So I know she never works Mondays. I guess I'll be scheduling all my future wax experiences on Mondays from here on out.

Snapshots of the Weekend

2009-10-11T18:14:00.000-07:00

Fall is here! My absolute favorite time of year, bar none. And today we made the annual trek to the over-priced, over-crowded apple orchard to consume, pick, consume and pick some more apples. It was especially nice for me because I have been down with a nasty cold and I finally felt well enough to get cleaned up and do something fun with my boys. It was an official "Mommy Day." Years ago when my first was 3 years old he would ask what day would be a "Mommy Day." That was our code for, "Mom is home from work that day." The phrase has stuck all the way through to the third and it still makes me happy when they say "Hooray! Mommy Day!"

So a day we had...

I am usually pretty much a Nazi about what they eat. OK, that may be an overstatement, because you all know I can cruise through McDs with the best of them and have been known to let them indulge in cotton candy at a ballgame, but really I do try hard. So today was a supreme challenge since we were surrounded by "bad stuff." How can this be you ask since we were among apple trees? Well part of the "orchard experience" is a trip to the adjacent farmer's market that has an adjacent food area. The food area really reminds me of one of those food alleys you'd find at a carnival. There were carmel apples, carmel chocolate apples, candy apples, hot dogs, pizza, french fries, burgers,huge pickles wrapped in foil that people ate like ice cream cones, fried mushrooms, fried cheese, fried buffalo wings, fried dough not to be confused with fried donuts, and the piece de la resistance....

homemade fried potato chips. Check them out...

To make matters worse, we put gooey, cheesy, cheese whiz like stuff on them along with a little vinegar, ketchup, salt and a dash of pepper. Look at my poor malnourished boys.

All in all, a good "Mommy Day" in spite of the saturated fat.

MILF

2009-10-06T18:36:00.000-07:00

Standing in line at the Johnson's Carmel Corn place in Ocen City, NJ I spot a t-shirt at the beach shop next door. It says

MILF In Training

I say to my guy, "Hmm, what's that?"

"You don't know?"

The lady in line in front of us says, "Oh it's bad, something really bad."

My guy whispers in my ear, "It means 'Mom I'd Like to F*&#' "

Ok, so I guess it's means the extreme version of a hot soccer mom? So I ask if it's the same as a Cougar and he says no. In fact a Cougar is a divorcee who gets it on with younger guys. I'm thinking she can also be a MILF if she has kids and he says Cougar is really more like a state of mind and a MILF is really just an observation about a woman with kids. But a MILF can evolve to a Cougar at least that's what I think. And a Cougar can be a MILF, if she is a hot old bag with kids hanging off of her. Either way, it's better than being a FOB in Training. (Fat Old Broad)

Sleepwalking

2009-10-05T19:30:00.000-07:00

Last night I was woken up no less than three times by my 7-year old to go "potty." He is too afraid to walk the ten feet to the bathroom by himself and requires an escort.

Today I was dog tired and I couldn't figure out why until I realized I didn't get more than three hours straight of sleep last night. I am so over that. Especially since I am looking at some very busy work weeks ahead and I need to bring it (so to speak). Well at my age to "bring it" you need sleep. It's as simple as that.

So tonight I told the Wild Man no more liquids for you after 7PM. He was having none of that. So I said, "Just so you know, I am NOT getting up to take you to the bathroom tonight. Do you really understand what that means? Not once. No sir, not me."

In his typically indignant way he says, "I don't care. I'm thirsty NOW." And proceeds to chug an entire bottle of Propel. So I tell him I will leave the bathroom light on so he can find his way.

Okey dokey. Good night. Sweet dreams. And remember you are on your own tonight, little man.

So I'm downstairs already working on the glut of shit that will consume me for the next several weeks and I hear some rumbling and mumbling. AHA! He is up and going to take himself to the bathroom. It's only ten o'clock. The child has the bladder of a small lab rat. But he is not moving toward the bathroom and the grumbling is getting louder. Doom sets in as I realize this is not going the way I had planned. I race upstairs and into his room just as he is walking toward the dresser in a daze. He stands in front of it...Now at this point my life goes in to slow motion...He pulls the bottom drawer open and assumes "the pee stance." HORROR washes over me as I realize he is about to take a leak all over his clothes! I run and scoop him up just as he pulls his cozy flannel pj bottoms down and grabs his weenie. (At his age you just have to call it a weenie). I literally sweep him off his feet screaming, "Noooooooooooooooooooooooo...." And I take him into the bathroom where I firmly plant him in front of the toilet and tell him this is where we go potty.

I think he woke up in the transfer from bedroom to bathroom and then went to the bathroom and stumbled back to bed.

High drama. That's my stinking life. After the whole thing I realized I just missed getting sprayed in the face. If I had scooped him up a moment later, he would have been mid-stream.

What does the rest of the night hold for me? Please God, six straight hours of sleep.

I'll let you know.

Me n' Suze

2009-09-22T17:33:00.001-07:00

I had to attend a luncheon the other day, one of probably at least 24 rubber chicken lunches I attend each year for work. This time I was a little enthused because the keynote speaker was Suze Orman. I have seen her on TV, Oprah and the like, but never in person. So at least it was better than some politician droning on and on. Ooops, we had that too, but that's a topic for another blog about overt sexism that is supposed to resonate with women, but is so transparent you throw up in your mouth a little. But I digress...

So Suzy... She is a bit of a freak, I must say, but did you know she is practically " a poor black child from the south side of Chicago?" I mean she says she was a waitress at a bakery until she was 30 with no career aspirations whatsoever. By "happenstance" she was hired as the first female broker at Meryl Lynch in one of their small offices in California in the '70s. She was told she was hired only because she was a woman and they needed to add women to the staff. "Don't expect to last more than six months," the 40-something, white collar, male boss told her. Well of course she lasted and then outlasted and out- sold all the men there and here we are three decades later and she's a gazillionaire AND is superstar in her own right.

So she is speaking at first all about empowering women and it's feeling a bit too Gloria Steinem for me, but I have to hang in there, at least as long as the six clients seated at my table. Finally...finally she gets to the stuff I need. What to do with money, how to manage money, the top few things you must do to protect, grow and keep your money. In full disclosure, I have no real money. None to speak of really. Enough to pay bills, feed my kids, get some new shoes now and again and pay my nanny (most important!). And I do have a 401K that used to be worth something about two years ago... But I had neglected having anything to do with money in my marriage (like most women, at least that's what Suzy said), and I believe it's time to get a handle on it and get involved. (Can you hear Helen Reddy in the background yet?).

So she goes on and on and I finally pull out my iPhone and start taking some notes:

Living Revocable Trust: Did you know (you probably do) that you cannot leave money to minors? Money, especially a decent amount, like a life insurance policy, has to been left to a "living revocable trust" set up for your kids. NO. IDEA.

Will and Trust kit found at suzeorman.com: She asked people in the audience to stand up if they did not have a will, durable power attorney, or advanced directive in place. There were about 4,000 people at this lunch (no lie) so women started to hesitantly stand up. I looked around my table, full of "power women" and none of them stood. Well shit, I don't have this stuff in place and I just couldn't embarrass myself in front of clients, so I stayed put. But that was a powerful thing she did. And I went home that night and went to her site online and started the process. She guides you through along with an attorney. It is a good thing to do to prep to meet with your own lawyer. Now I do get a bit of credit here because I have connected with my tax attorney and we did agree (before the lunch) that I needed to come in and get things started. If you are interested you can log on and enter the promo code saveyourselfnow and get the kit for free.

Roth IRA: She explained that in high level terms. Good deal if you qualify. Don't think I do.

8 month emergency fund: Suze said this is a MUST. In fact she said that it is more important than paying off debt and if you have to prioritize, get that in order first.

Term Life Insurance: is the only way to go. I do have that. Whew, but can't leave it to my kids now that I sure don't want my Ex to have it. See first bullet point.

So I walked out of the luncheon mostly empowered to take control of my money, but a little embarrassed that I am 44, a successful, reasonably intelligent woman and more clueless about my finances than I should be. So I'm hear to tell you (all ten who follow this blog, that is) to get involved. Insist on knowing and understanding where the money is, how it's allocated, what the plan is and have a voice in those decisions.

Showing Up

2009-09-19T19:37:00.000-07:00

One of my best friends' husbands recently had lung transplant, a double lung transplant. He is 43 years old. After years and years of respiratory issues, he went on three transplant lists two years ago. He had to stop working and has been tethered to continuous oxygen on the first floor of his home waiting to get the call. His life literally put on hold. Waiting for a shot at a new life to begin.

I came to help this weekend. How the hell can I help? I realize just being here is a living illustration of my love, but I still feel so helpless, for my friend and her husband. He is four weeks past the transplant and still the road ahead is uncertain. The difficulty breathing has been replaced with debilitating nausea in addition to many other side effects that can strip any man of his dignity and sense of self. So today I just decided to "be there." To help in small ways. Get a glass of water, change the linens, keep him company while my friend got a much needed break to go to Target to pick up necessities. I wonder while she is gone if they sell strength, courage and compassion at Target, cause I'm pretty sure she can use a refill. I was elated when the husband was able to crack a joke with me. In fact when it happened, I said "welcome back, my friend. So glad to have you with me."

I have spent many a day and night in a hospital with my daughter while others showed up feeling just as helpless as I felt today. I was always so happy to have them there, blessed to have the hug of their mere presence in our room. I must remember that as I sit reading quietly while he dozes today. Sometimes just showing up is enough.

365

2009-09-15T16:16:00.000-07:00

365 days ago I was stone scared. I had made some serious decisions and was ready to finally take my life back. And now 525,600 minutes later I have not one regret. That feels amazing. I couldn't have guessed that this is where I'd be when I jumped overboard last year. I knew I could survive and I knew it was the right thing to do, but the unknown, especially for my kids, was daunting to say the least.

I was so unsettled. I called it "restless" for four years. I was afraid to call it what it really was. I was afraid to say it out loud. Imagine that! But now I have hindsight and I have a deep sense of optimism. I've written other blogs about a wash of calm that is my new normal (at least for the most part). Peaceful is another word I often use. I have changed my life and I now look forward to my future. I used to look at my future as "only ten more years to stick it out" ... "only until the little one graduates"... "only, only, only"...Then maybe I can seek my own.

A friend of mine told me the other day, "Wow, your life must be so stressful."

"Not anymore. Not compared to a year ago."

The Wild West

2009-09-11T16:26:00.000-07:00

We recently went to New Mexico to visit my sister. If you haven't taken the time to see the western part of our country, you must. Truly, take the time, make the effort, you will not regret it. Here are a few reasons why:

The Rio Grande Gorge

A Storm Over Santa Fe

Sunset in Taos

The Church of San Jose de Gracia, 18th Century, Las Trampas

Horseback Riding

Handsome Cowboys

The Labyrinth

2009-08-31T18:37:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico. My sister has lived in New Mexico for over 25 years, so I have had the pleasure of visiting Santa Fe many times in my life. Each time I discover something new, even though most of the time I go to the same places. This time around I was visiting the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi again, right off the Plaza in the middle of Santa Fe. There is a beautiful labyrinth here next to the cathedral. I remembered that I had taken the kids here the last time we were in town about three years ago. Then the boys ran in circles trying to follow the path like a maze. I watched and laughed as they played, but didn’t really think about the symbolism of it all. This time I walked the Labyrinth alone and the experience was very different for me.

The story of the labyrinth is that in the Middle Ages, people who were not able to make the long pilgrimage from Europe to Jerusalem walked the labyrinth as a symbolic pilgrimage. In modern times there has been a resurgence of interest in the labyrinth as a tool for quiet meditation and for reconciliation. The Cathedral labyrinth has become part of the famous Easter pilgrimage walk from Santa Fe to Chimayo.

I stepped on to the circular path and began to follow it around and around. As I circled, I began to see the meaning for me, as each turn began to represent major challenges in my life and the pattern of my own journey began to emerge. I started walking faster and faster and associating more and more life events with the twists and turns in the pattern. In fact, I even began to call out what each meant to me - out loud. It was enlightening as some paths were long and straight, while others were short with many twists. Maybe this is all too obvious from the outside, but for me it was just one more cathartic process that added to my new sense of fulfillment and accomplishment, more so to this new sense of inner peace I have for the first time in many years.

When I came home, I researched more about the labyrinth and found this beautiful poem that captures my experience.

Into The Labyrinth

The labyrinth is a great circle,
radiating a soft invitation
from its narrow entrance
to pilgrims of life, wandering
in search of wisdom in their souls.

Leave your puzzled mind outside,
wandering aimlessly
in a maze of its own
as it looks for finite answers
to the wrong questions.

Inside the sacred vessel,
in the suggestive moonlight,
a path leads quickly towards the center then
out, by turns, to the periphery, offering several glimpses inside.

Passersby glance in, looking
for that which eyes cannot see.
There is only one way in.
At the core truth waits,
as silent and patient as the stars.

Pilgrims walk north, south, east, west,
all moving towards the sacred middle, approaching, meeting,
pondering visions from various passages:
birth, youth, maturity, death.

The journey inside is long
with many unexpected turns
for the student and teacher inside,
with as many questions as answers,
all illuminated by the window to truth.

Around the last bend to the center,
each pilgrim is greeted not by crowds
but by his own courageous soul,
waiting by the shores of silence,
gathering shadow, contradiction, light.

We are following the way of light,
tracing a path through swirling sands
along an ancient course almost forgotten. Outside a desert; inside cleansing waters.
It is time to drink from a different cup.

Chartres, France

Reconnecting

2009-08-27T15:07:00.000-07:00

I've been a bit MIA. I guess for good reason, travel, work, family stuff, life in general. Today my reason is a bit more legit. Miss Maggie, my special 10 year-old daughter, had a minor heart operation. I'm not sure how the words "minor" and " "heart operation" go together, but now that she is sitting up and listening to my iPod, I can breathe out a bit.

Reconnecting may be a strange title for this blog, but that's what happens with me and Maggie when we have doctor's appointments, procedures and hospitalizations. We get to spend lots and lots of time alone together and quite frankly it's the only time like this we get any more. So today our day started with a 5 AM wake up. We had to be at the hospital (an hour away) by 6:15 AM. She looked OK, me, not so much. The intake took about two hours - the consult with the nurses, the Resident, the Anesthesiologist, and finally the Surgeon. Let me just say this, the surgeon looked like a transvestite! He was Nordic and his eyebrows were way too shaped and waxed for a guy. I mentioned to the nurse that he was "an interesting character" and she grinned and said, "Yes, that he is, but he is an amazing surgeon who travels the world to teach the procedure he is going to perform on your daughter." Enough said about that then.

So her surgery was done via a cardiac catheter and lasted about 2 1/2 hours, during which time I napped. I have been to the hospital so many times with her that I don't get too nervous anymore, and I desperately needed the sleep. All went well and now we must stay for observation overnight. We will go home tomorrow afternoon, barring anything unusual.

So I spend a lot of time stroking her hair, holding her hand and tending to her needs. When she gets upset I sort of hum quietly in her ear and tell her "Mamma's here. Not to worry." She responds. She turns her head to the sound of my voice. She smiles.

We will never have deep conversations about anything, but these moments are how we communicate in our own special way. Not many will ever understand it. But that doesn't matter. We do.

Fire In the Hole!

2009-08-19T16:53:00.000-07:00

If you are a man, you may want to stop right here and read no further. This is just one of those blogs that probably only my women friends can relate to.

Yesterday I went for a bikini wax. OK, I'll admit it was more than a "bikini" wax (think country in South America), but let's just go with that for now. I have a great waxer. She is a 60-ish Asian woman who studied in France and her life's work is to extract hair, follicle by follicle, from her clients. She is good though. I may have even featured her here before.

I could drag this blog out, but it's quite simple. In fact I can sum it up in three words:

Scalding. Hot. Wax.

Now remember it's a bikini wax and the hot wax part was not really on a part I can discuss on my PG-rated blog. The worst part was that I couldn't really get a good look at the damage. I am a 44-year old woman, not a contortionist from Cirque du Soleil. Suffice to say that last night I sat with a bag of frozen corn on my crotch watching a chick flick lamenting why the hell we do the stuff we do to our bodies.

Dave Thomas, Where Are You When I Need you?

2009-07-31T19:28:00.000-07:00

Dave Thomas, as you all probably know, was the founder of Wendy's. He appeared in TV commercials forever and seemed like a genuine, honest guy. I mean the guy named his multi-billion dollar operation after the daughter he adopted. What's not to trust right?

Well clearly Mr. Thomas has left the building. Now I know he passed away a while ago and I realize he may not have had anything to do with the specifics of the joint, but indulge me if you will.

Used to be you could get a tall Frosty there. And if you didn't have the need or the calories left in your Weight Watchers log for the day, you could get a small one or even a Junior. The Junior and the Small were still enough to satisfy the basic Frosty craving. It has recently come to my attention that there have been significant cuts at Wendy's. The economy is taking it's toll, even on the Frosty.

Here's how I know. The other day I had to take my daughter to a doctor's appointment. One I thought would take an hour and so I brought the boys along, with the idea that we could zip in and out and then get lunch on the way home. I have been working a lot and had taken the day off, so I thought I could give my kids some much needed one-on-three time. My fist signal that the day was going to be a bust is when I couldn't even get Wildman out the door after 15 minutes of sheer hysteria over not being able to play on my iPhone in the car. I left him in the house while I loaded Maggie and all her stuff in the car and Jake dutifully got in as well. Even though the door to the house was shut, we could hear #3 screaming inside. I'm pretty sure all of my neighbors could too. Finally I coaxed him in to the car with the promise of a "nice lunch" after the appointment.

Second sign, they made us wait 1 1/2 hours before we even got in to the appointment holding room. Then the nightmare continued. We needed an x-ray and then some blood work and oh, by the way, you need to come back up here when you are done. So we got to the appointment at 10:30 AM and didn't leave until 2:30PM. In and out, my ass. Nice lunch, fat f-ing chance.

In order to pass the time, my oldest took Wildman on a tour of the gift shop and the cafeteria (complete with a "first lunch"), while I ripped every nurse in sight as to why we were on the slow boat to China. I gave them the "My ADHD kid can't take this kind of waiting and oh, my handicapped kid is missing medication cause no one TOLD me I would be here all day!" I don't usually lose it, but my my number was up.

So finally we get the hell back on the road and I needed my daily 44 oz. dose of Diet Coke. And we spot a Wendy's. Drive throughs are all I do when the car is loaded. Wildman informs me he is still hungry so we go for "lunch
#2." I order a kids meal with mandarin oranges and a junior Frosty. (You were wondering when the Frosty was going to fit in to this story weren't you? Patience, Grasshopper...). So the little guy goes NUTs for the second time in 8 hours because he doesn't want oranges. HE! WANTS! FRIES! Well fries were part of the first lunch, so I put my foot down. Also I had ordered the Frosty thinking that would soothe the savage beast. So while he's moaning about the no fries thing, we pull up to the pick up window and the woman starts handing us our stuff. Diet Coke, check. Kid's meal with dreaded oranges, check. And then it's as if my life went in to slow motion. I turn back to get the Frosty and she hands me a Dixie cup sized thing with a straw that can barely fit in the cup, it's so shallow. Apparently they have reduced the Junior Frosty into a mere image of its former self. Times are so tough, that they have increased the price and made the serving size half of what would be considered half of the original Junior Frosty.

I take it in my hand and turn to my older son, who's eyes grow wide (remember we are still in slow mo, here) and he says, "Oh man, we are so screwed." I had to agree (even though I didn't want him to use that language). But that's what we were. Actually we were F-ed, with a capital "F."

We both knew that the moment Wildman saw the size of that tiny, little, shameful Frosty all hell was going to break lose.

So I slowly hand the Frosty to him in the back of the van, as if I am feeding meat to an angry tiger and I don't want to startle him. He takes it. There is silence, only briefly. We brace ourselves up front for what we know is coming...

"THIS FROSTY IS FOR BABIES. JESUS CHRIST!! I AM NOT A BABY. THIS IS TOO SMALL."

And then sheer pandemonium broke out. Thank God he was buckled in his seat belt, because I am pretty sure he would've spun like a top right through the car and then his head would have exploded.

We started laughing our butts off, but that's just not the thing to do with an already hysterical child. It escalated beyond words. Suffice it to say, we paid dearly the whole ride home.

It was almost worth it, almost.

P.S.
The Frosty was invented at Wendy's owner Dave Thomas' request by dairyman E.M. "Bill" Barker. When the first Wendy's opened in 1969, chocolate was the only flavor available. The actual flavor of the original Frosty is a mixture of chocolate and vanilla. Dave Thomas thought that 100% chocolate was too overpowering a flavor when paired with a Wendy's burger and fries meal. The second Frosty flavor, vanilla, was introduced in 2006.The dessert is available in five sizes: Jr. (6 oz.), small (12 oz.), medium (16 oz.), large (20 oz.) and 32 ounces . Frosties are served at 20 °F ± 1 ideally.

Brought to You By Shark in a Jar

2009-07-21T19:30:00.000-07:00

Hopefully you saw my post about our very own Shark in a Jar. If not scroll back a few. It's really a sight to be seen. It's gross. But I have seen grosser (is that even a word?).

I let my youngest go crazy on a recent zoo trip with the camera. He wanted to take a picture of every fricking animal we saw. Since I am trying to encourage self esteem and allow him some independent judgment (supposed to be good for the ADHD thing), I let him. Well, that and the fact that digital photography costs you nothing. So I said "Knock yourself out, Little Man."

Here are a few highlights from a 6-year old Ansel Adams:

Hugging Crocs

Iguana

Capybara (really!)

Long Necked Turtle (ok, I made that name up, but sounds about right if you look at this thing)

Butt licking Jaguar

WTF??? (Nessy?)

He's got talent, right? Art school here we come!

In Between

2009-07-20T19:20:00.000-07:00

I have decided my oldest is "in between." He is not a baby nor a little boy, but not quite a teenager or pre-teen. So I am learning how to transition from holding his hand in the parking lot and pushing him to act more grown up at a restaurant. I'm pretty sure I can no longer see him naked, although I wiped that butt more times than I can count. In fact I used to bite that little butt, when it was little, that is. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to kiss him goodbye when he gets dropped off at a friend's, especially if the friend is present, or should I tell him not to cry when he skins his knee cause it's really not that bad. Really I don't want to push him into his ever growing natural separation from me, but I don't want to hold him back.

I guess I will defer to him since he still asks me to lay with him at night briefly and will reach for my hand in public every once in a while. This is cliche and over-used, but where did the time go with this child? How do I get it back?

Nothing Gets Past this Kid

2009-07-19T17:17:00.000-07:00

Sitting at dinner the other night, my 6-year old says "So who gets Michael Jackson's money?"

"Excuse me? What are you talking about?" I ask, astonished.

"Well, he died and he's got money. So who gets it now?"

"How do you know he has money?"

"He's famous. So he has money."

"Well, yes, he is and he does. And his kids get it."

Writer's Blog

2009-07-18T16:50:00.000-07:00

Clearly I have been absent from my commitment to my blog. I never thought it'd happen to me but I have had trouble thinking of stuff to say. Seriously, the one who is a self proclaimed motor mouth and yet, here I sit staring at the screen.

I have had random thoughts, not enough to fill an entire blog but some of them have been:

1. .
Getting off a plane the other day, there were two teenage girls in front of me. They had been dead asleep on the flight and woke barely coherent. They de-planed just in front of me and as they slogged up the jet way, I notice they were both wearing pajama bottoms. Long, baggy, flannel pajama bottoms. It is the middle of July, but who am I to judge right? As they are walking they were both tugging the bottoms down to half off their butts and adjusting the boxer shorts underneath to show. Strange to me. It was deliberate and clearly very important to get this look just right. I quick tried to capture this without them seeing, so forgive the fuzzy photo.

2. My oldest son is getting chapped this summer and it ain't on his lips either. Poor guy, he's walking like John Wayne and wincing. I'm not sure how to help him and he keeps wanting to show me the problem. I am his mom and I think "Well sure, he can show me his most private parts at the age of 11. How else am I supposed to help him out, right?" My BF says now is the time to stop helping out in that area and that I shouldn't be seeing my son's package anymore. I get it, it's just that there's no one else around and he was crying. So yes, I'll admit it, I not only saw the entire package, I had to put Desitin on the hideous rash that was all over the place. What's a girl to do?

3. We are on our second trial of ADHD meds for my little guy and everyone is raving about the positive effects of it. Well everyone but me, that is. To be fair, today was my first full day with him since we began the meds. (I have been traveling and he was at his Dad's). I woke up so happy looking forward to the peaceful, uneventful day with my former Wild Man. Not so much. He yelled at me, threw a shoe, pouted and lost a few privileges. So toward the end of the day I was hiding in my bathroom on the verge of quiet tears and he wanders in and just wraps his arms around me tight. So the tears of frustration I thought I was going to cry, melted in to tears of amazement that my little guy, who is just so hard some days (OK, most days) does have the capacity of tenderness and empathy.

What Are They Teaching My Kid In School?

2009-06-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

I knew my 11-year old had a "Health" class this year in fifth grade. I figured they would cover the basics but only basically. I think Health class has certainly evolved since I had it.

Here's how I know. I'm walking with my guys last night laughing and talking. A woman is approaching us and she is digging a front wedgie out of her shorts. I mean not just one little pinky slip to unleash her camel toe. I'm talking digging in the short shorts moving stuff around. She must have really been uncomfortable. So I mention to my Big Guy (11 y-old), "Did you see that woman digging in her pants? She must have something going on with her 'cookie'."

"Cookie?", he says.

I say, "Yeah, her privates. Her cookie." By way of background my friend calls it a cookie. Seems so much more genteel than the technical term that begins with a CAPITAL V.

He says, "More like an ice cream sandwich, Mom."

WHAT???? ICE. CREAM. SANDWICH? I have to probe further cause he is actually right if you think about it. "What do you mean ice cream sandwhich, son?"

"You know two sides with something in the middle."

Shit, Middle School curriculum has certainly advanced.

Miracle Drug? NOT!

2009-06-21T12:39:00.000-07:00

After over a year of debate and a few significant, serious discussions with my Ex, we finally decided to put Wild Man on medication for his ADHD. Given his age (6 1/2), it required some serious thought. The year-end kindergarten report was somewhat dismal, resulting in an official IEP (Individualized Education Plan) for him as well as the need for summer school to catch him up before he starts first grade.

I have been actively thinking about it for the last three months, researching and consulting with the behavior specialist we have worked with for the last year. He had always said it is a decision that comes when the child's quality of life becomes significantly impaired by his ADHD. And in all honesty, he also said that when my quality of life became an issue. I'm not talking about the inability to come and go as I please or having an angelic child. No, I'm talking about being yelled at some days, all day, by an angry little guy who has no where to go with his "wigglies." I'm talking about taking over 30 minutes in the morning before school just to get the shoes on and get out the door. They have to be the right pair of shoes, they have to be tied with exactly the right amount of pressure and they have to be the ones he chooses.

I am, for all intents and purposes, a single mom. During the week, my boys see their dad on Tuesday and Thursday nights, having been fed, bathed, homeworked and delivered to my Ex by my nanny. He essentially has about 1-2 hours of awake time with them. He has never truly engaged in the behavior program with Wild Man, nor has he truly accepted the depth of his issues. It all has to do with his own narcissism, but that's just TMI for this post.

So when both Wild Man and I reached the breaking point, I consulted my Ex (legally you have to) and he was still very hesitant. I said, "OK, then I think he should live with you for the next two weeks straight and you can engage academically, socially, and personally with him so that you get the real picture." His father skips most parent teacher meetings, nearly all appointments with the Behaviorist and is not involved in play dates or sports in any real way. But, at the suggestion that he take over, he acquiesced and agreed to the medication.

"OK, so do you want to go with me to the doctor to discussion our options?" I say.

"No, you can handle it." 'Nuff said about my single parented-ness.

The pediatrician recommended Focalin XR at a very low dose to start. I decided to start the meds this week as we are on vacation all week and I can then observe him closely. So our first day, Saturday, rolls around and we put the med in chocolate milk. It's a capsule that no child could ever swallow so we were told to mix in with something good. I had told Wild Man that the docotor suggested some medication that would help him feel calmer and not get so upset so easily. He was happy to try it.

Fast forward three days...I think this is making his ADHD symptoms worse! I am serious and of course I'm thinking that this is typical for me and my unusually "lucky" life. I get the kid who falls into the minority % group who have don't show marked signs of improvement.

After the first day, my oldest leans in and whispers to me, "I don't think we should give it to him tomorrow, Mom. It's not working."

So I guess my guy is a Focalin failure. We are both feeling the pain.

UPDATE: I spoke to the doctor and she said that sometimes the meds can make symptoms worse (as we saw) and on Monday we will see her and go to plan B. Pray for Plan B.

Snake Oil

2009-06-08T17:32:00.000-07:00

Wild Man loves all things gross. Remember he has eaten dried worms off the driveway, rarely wears underwear and always watches when he gets shots at the doctor. Recently he needed stitches in his hand and he never winced nor looked away as the ER Doc numbed him up and gave him seven Frankenstein stitches up his thumb. So it won't surprise you that I often look for the grossest of gross to share with him. I did grow up with four brothers whose specialties were trying to gross out their baby sister at all cost. Not possible. I didn't earn the nickname "Road Kill Kuehn" for nothing. And it wasn't because I hit a lot of stray animals late at night. No, I was fascinated at what was left over after the hit. I call it scientifically curious.

This past spring I went on a girls' get-away to the New Jersey shore. During dinner one evening, my friend informed me that her son had blown most of his allowance at the shore last summer on a "Shark in a Jar." Not a boogie board, not an "I'm with Stupid" t-shirt, not a temporary tattoo, but the mother lode of all souvenirs. It is in fact a real shark preserved in a jar. A small shark, but real nonetheless. I was fascinated and knew I must find one for the Wild Man. It would delight him beyond all other things gross. I searched the shore that weekend to no avail. In fact, I was told they were now illegal. I even pressed the issue to one store owner when I asked, "You don't even have any in a back room somewhere?" I mean this is the tact I take when looking for the great knock-off purses in Chinatown in Manhattan. There is always a secret backroom where the good stuff is. Nope, not the case with a "Shark in a Jar."

So I came back from my trip with nothing of the sort for my son. Only the tall tale that there once existed such a thing. Oh how we discussed what it could look like and how it was preserved, and how the sharks got caught and ended up in the jar. Over time he forgot (thank God). But not me. After all, don't all moms want to make dreams come true for their children?

So this weekend my friend was at the shore with his 15 year-old son and his buddy and I casually say "If you see a Shark in a Jar, please pick it up for Wild Man." He didn't know what it was but here's how the story unfolded through text:

Friend: "My son says it's a dead shark in a jar??"
Me: "YES!!! Wild Man is dying for one. He loves all that stuff."
F: "Eeeeewwwwwwwwwww!"
Me: "Strap 'em on big boy and just get over it."
F: “Nobody seems to know what they are. One guy said they used to have them? Lots of weird blank stares."
Me: "When I was at the shore earlier this year one guy told me they may be illegal now." (I purposely used the word “may” so as not to scare him from the task. The guy told me they were illegal.)
F: "Oh my gawd --you had me hauling illegal contraband over state lines. I would have had to put a dead shark up my butt?"
Me: "LMAO"

So I gave it up as a lost cause. Then at 11PM the phone rings, "We have it!!! We found it in the last store we looked in. My son thinks it's gross, but the other kid thinks it's cool. Should I get it?"

SHOULD. HE GET. IT???? He has to ask?

“Of course you have to get it.”

And here, Ladies and Gentleman, is the moment you have all been waiting for.

BEHOLD... THE SHARK IN A JAR

His name is Sheldon, now owned and proudly displayed in my home by my 6-year-old. The only problem is getting him to keep it in the jar.

Seasons

2009-06-06T14:45:00.000-07:00

I'm so happy that summer is here. Not because of the beach or the longer days or the excuse to eat ice cream on a regular basis. No, I'm happy because it means I made it through the winter. It means I hung in there through the shit storm of my life and am at the beginning of something so much better than I could have even imagined.

When I decided to change my life once and for all it was early fall. The leaves were changing. I was changing. I identified with the vibrant colors and the need to fall away from something that had kept me clinging for too long, long after the strength was there to sustain. When the leaves fell and the tress grew bare, my heart was heavy and I felt empty. I knew there was real opportunity for re-growth if only I could make it to spring. Each day as I commuted to and from work, I looked at all the barren trees and thought long and hard about my life, about my new life. It lay ahead of me, but just slightly out of reach, with too many speed bumps in the way. But I knew deep down, that once spring arrived, my life would be different. So I waited for the trees to bloom while I no longer waited for my life to start. I planted new seeds of growth within myself and nurtured them. I allowed others to nurture and care for me as well. By the time the first buds of spring appeared on the tress, my new life had taken root and I stood taller than I had in such a very long time. I had clarity and power and peace, all at once.

So now the trees are in full bloom and so is my life, all over again. I guess I always believed I had it in me, I just never knew it could be this rejuvenating. It's an overused metaphor and has absolutely nothing to do with religion or even spirituality, but truly I have been reborn.

Maybe it does have something to do with faith though.

TMI

2009-05-28T04:25:00.000-07:00

I flew to Boston recently for business and had an incredibly friendly flight attendant on my 8:15 AM trip. She discussed the multiple benefits of buying the blanket that they no longer just give you if you are cold. It's called the Power Nap Sack Pillow and Balnket Kit. For $7 you get an official US Airways blue blanket (feels like it's made out of generic toilet paper), a sleeping mask, a blow up neck pillow and of course your very own travel sleeve which all of this comes in.
I was still amazed that you no longer could get a pillow or blanket on any flight (trans continental excluded). She told me that the blankets were bacterial breeding grounds and this was a much healthier option. In fact, the set was so compact I could slip it right in to my purse. Not.

But she went on to talk to me about random things including her new puppy, a Pit Bull she found wandering her neighborhood one night. "He's a love." Riiiiight. Then some how she started talking about the Red Eye flights. They are cheaper and of course everyone sleeps all night. I commented that it must be an easier gig for her since everyone is asleep. She said, "Well, we call it the Gas Passer Flight." I raised an eyebrow as if to say. "Please, explain." (I can't really raise only one eyebrow, but if I could, I would have) She says that while all the passengers sleep they pass gas. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. Eeeewwwww. She nodded her head in agreement and said that she often puts lavender essential oil just under each nostril to combat the smell that permeates the entire aircraft. Her colleagues also keep a can of Lysol in the back and spray that to break up the stench.

Really, what do you say to that?

Timeless

2009-05-24T12:16:00.000-07:00

As it happens when you move, you find all kinds of mementos that have been stowed and stashed for years. I recently came across a beautiful note my mother wrote to me six months before she died. I was 21, she was 53.

Some things your parents tell you are of the moment. Others are timeless. This is one of those letters I read over and over again and it never loses it's relevance.

Jan 28, 1986

Dear Molly -

To me you are a princess and like this card’s princess, you have no prince as yet. That is because princes and princesses are very rare. For all the difficult times between Dad and I, there are also times when he acts like a Prince and makes me feel every inch a Princess. And honey, you are young. You are also wise and mature beyond your years. But always remember you are different – your openness, warmth, and honesty are more than a non-Prince can handle. And Molly, you deserve the very best. It may take a while, but it’s worth the wait. Never forget you are as beautiful inside and out as can be found. And feel the Princess you are. And demand the respect you deserve. You and I both know you could “land” someone tomorrow – but he wouldn’t be good enough.

Inside you know I’m right, you are a Princess and you will have the best, but on God’s timetable.
xxx,
Mother

The Official Start of Summer

2009-05-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

Before

Ready for the Dog Days of Summer

So Sophmoric

2009-05-17T07:32:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched "Grumpy Old Men" with my guys. I promised them they would laugh their heads off. This is one of my favorite movies because the chemistry and timing between Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon is just priceless and because Burgess Meredith, who plays the quintessential very dirty old man is simply hysterical.

My favorite part of the movie are the out takes at the end when Burgess Meridith and Jack Lemon are staring out the window as Matthau is going in to Ann-Margret's house.

Lemmon exclaims, "He's in! He's in!"

And Meredith observes:

"Looks like Chuck's taking old One Eye to the Optometrist."

And the out takes go like this

"Looks like Chuck's...
...taking the skin boat to tuna town."
...taking a ride on the wild the baloney pony."
...entering the Holy of Holys, coitus un-interruptus."
...slipping her the old salami."
...putting the hot dog in the bun."
...a Tom Cat on the prowl. YEOW!"
...taking the old log to the beaver."
...going to bury his boner."

Wild Man says, "Hey Mom, you said we would be laughing our heads off. We aren't yet."

This says more about me than my kids. I love this shit.

Loss

2009-05-15T03:35:00.000-07:00

Usually, I have more than enough material to blather on on a regular basis. Today is tough. I am at a loss.

Yesterday I attended the memorial service for my dear friend who recently lost his battle with liver cancer. 200+ people arrived to celebrate his life and mourn together. The service was beautiful. Five people eulogized him; his brother (his only living relative), his wife, two friends and his best friend and business partner. We all sat there as each person took us through their own personal journey of remembering Ethan. There was so much humor, since that was Ethan's greatest gift to us. There was so much reflection on the kid of man he was, small in stature, huge in heart. I felt as if we were invited into each speaker's private journey of grief and remembrance. I didn't want it to stop because then it would be official. I wanted to linger in that place of reflection, some how avoiding the future where there would be no Ethan with us at cookouts, birthday dinners, baseball games, and so on.

Grief is a strange thing. We seek togetherness to heal, yet it is lonely. The only thing that truly eases the pain is the passing of time. I will wait patiently.

Taking Care

2009-05-10T16:33:00.001-07:00

I treated myself to a massage for Mother's Day. I found the most amazing masseuse after my triathlon last year and I keep going back. Joe is an older guy (maybe 55?) and was a welder in his former life. He has huge, thick hands that are strong and gentle all at once. He has a long grey pony tail, an earring and the kindest voice.

I have had many massages in my life and never went back to the same person. Some people had told me how a great massage can make all the difference. I have had plenty of them, but never fully relaxed. Maybe it's the naked with a stranger rubbing your entire body thing?

The massage after my Tri was amazing and healing. Joe takes his job very seriously, explaining what he is doing all the while. Muscle groups, pressure points, stretching dynamics, etc. In fact, the first massage was a bit unnerving because he does talk all the time. But once I adjusted, I found it soothing.

Needless to say there has been a bit of stress in my life the last few months and I found my back and neck locking up. So much so that I got a horrible migraine as a result about six weeks ago. Went back to Joe and he literally fixed me right up. I had never gone to a massage to get "fixed" before. Joe knows how to fix things.

Today I returned with more stress in my back and neck and he was happy to see me. "We'll fix you right up, Sweetie." I told him there had been a lot going on and that every time I interact with my Ex I immediately get a "steel plate" slammed into my back and attached with a high powered tool and dead bolts. He didn't comment and went about his work.

After an hour of Joe's healing hands he says, "How you doing, Sweetie?" I say "Much better now, Joe." He pats my hand and says "You come back again soon. And don't let him get to you." At that he walked out of the room.

I began to cry. I guess it was the release of the pressure in my back and neck, but I know it was more the fact that this is another person I have found in my life to take care of me in one way or another. Then I realized how lucky I am to have built a cocoon of people around me. Some are friends, some are family, others are colleagues, others employees. Some are people I pay and others are those who help educate and care for my kids. I had to learn to accept help and care from others. I think my own life circumstances have helped me learn this, but I'd be remiss if I didn't credit my Mom for some of this as well. As I grew up I watched her fill in the gaps in her life like this as well. We can't do it alone and I am continually reminded that's it's truly ok to seek out what you need.

Foreign Territory

2009-05-10T15:53:00.000-07:00

OK, so something is going on with me. I can't say much but it is good. And it's a place I've never, ever been, certainly not in the last 15 years. Maybe my luck is changing afterall.

Boys' Club

2009-05-08T15:34:00.000-07:00

I grew up with four brothers, three older, one younger. So I can hang with guys. In fact, I have lots of male friends and I can say I truly enjoy the company of men (not for all the obvious reasons either). I think this helps me be a better mom to my sons. I mean, not much grosses me out. When you grow up with your older brother dropping a wet vac on your forehead, you can handle a lot.

So I love to learn what the inner language is among men. It makes my honorary membership in the Club that much more contextual. So I have this new friend, who recently busted a big guy myth for me.

Have you heard about how when a guy gets a hard on (yes, I just wrote that in my blog) that when they want it to "go away" they think of baseball? It's like an urban legend, right? So I assumed the mundane nature of a baseball game is the thing that can shrink a dink in a heart beat. Makes sense right? So my friend tells me it's not the game at all, but something called a short hop. It is a real term in baseball for fielding ground balls. Only in this particular case, the guy doesn't catch the ball and it bounces up and hits him in the nuts. In order for this woody elimination technique it to be effective, this has have to happened to the guy only once in his life. Apparently the pain is so excruciating that he never, ever forgets it. So he calls up the memory in dire times to make his friend Woody cower.

I know, you will all thank me later.

Reality Check

2009-04-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

So if you follow this at all, you know it's been a crappy week, hell it's been a crappy year. Today as I was talking to my six year-old on the phone I told him, "I love you more than Reese's Peanut Butter Cups."

And he said, "I love you more than Hershey Chocolate, China Town and Skittles."

We've never been to China Town, but he sent me to the moon.

Life is Short

2009-04-29T04:17:00.001-07:00

We lost a dear, dear friend to liver cancer yesterday. He was diagnosed in September and it seems like only yesterday. He was 44, married with two sons, 5 and 3. His beautiful wife (39) has stood by his side throughout this and weathered this with dignity and grace beyond description. He died in her arms.

I guess you always hear folks say how vibrant and bright their friends who have passed were. But my friend was all that and more. He was intelligent, perceptive and funny as shit. I loved talking with him as we could cover serious issues like how to tell his kids what was going on with his health or what the true definition of sex is (i.e., does it count if it is only stuck in with one or two pumps?). He always, always made me feel respected for my opinion and listened intently when I talked. We don't realize how few people do that. I miss him already. Our circle will be incomplete forever. We will fill it with extra love for his wife and for ourselves in his absence.

Truly I do not understand life most days. I am not spiritual, maybe that's part of the problem. To me there is no "reason for everything." I think Life is so random and the best we can do is be thankful each day for the beautiful random things and wrap our arms around those we love and those who need it.

Swine Flu

2009-04-27T18:44:00.000-07:00

Oh, I have that. I have had it for years now. It's origin is the swine I married and stuck with for too damn long. It's true it's nearly fatal and tough to get rid of. The effects of the disease are long lasting and quite painful.

Bad Mommy!

2009-04-24T17:57:00.000-07:00

I. AM. EXHAUSTED.

I'm pretty sure I have PTSD from all this divorce stuff, oh and the promotion I got with 20 people reporting to me, oh and the ADHD thing with Wild Man and let's not forget the handicapped daughter thing, topped off with an ex-husband who now has a girlfriend. I shit you not. Two weeks ago he nearly cried to the judge that he "loved and honored his wife" and now some poor, poor desperate woman is falling victim to his crap. Good luck to the both of them I say. And don't get me started on the dating thing. Total mystery to me.

There's even more stuff involving serious health issues with very close friends that I can't even begin to blog about. Suffice it to say, it's heavy and very, very sad.

And today I was told by my daughter's Orthopedic Special st that she must have major spine surgery in the next three months that requires the insertion of a steel rod into her back and basically attached to her entire spine.

I think this is my second official pity party. Did anyone bring vodka?

So I am a bad Mommy cause I am sitting here blowing the horns at my pity party while I let my sons and their buddy watch some horribly inappropriate movie. It's rated PG-13. That means don't let your kids watch it. I was too tired to fight the fight so I'll be putting soap in Wild Man's mouth tomorrow for all the bad words I hear floating up from the basement. Some folks have a 529 savings plan for college. Not me, mine's for their therapy.

Isn't exhaustion a sign of bonafide depression. What the hell do I have to be depressed about, right?

Kama Sutra

2009-04-18T18:42:00.000-07:00

I had no idea what this was. Today, I had the pleasure of finding out with Wild Man at Barnes and Noble. It is a book about sexual positions. I can hear you all saying in unison, "Duh."

It's a little book with lots and lots and lots of pictures of naked men and women having sex in ways that look neither provocative nor appealing. Hell, they don't even look possible. In fact, most of them look outright uncomfortable.

so I glance while Wild Man was looking through his Shark book. Of course he gravitates toward it well after I have put it back. "Why am I still in the same section, you ask?" Well I was searching for the self-help book my shrink recommended would help me solve over 30 years of programming that repeatedly draws me to the wrong men. Oh but that's a post for another day.

So he picks it up and glances and asks, "What are they doing in this book?" I can tell from his devilish look that he knows it's naughty stuff but wants to see what I will say.

"They are dancing." And before he can ask, "and they have no clothes on so you can really see all their muscles and how hard they are working to get the steps right."

He didn't buy it. I laughed all the way to the Children's section.

I Need a Man Like My Dog

2009-04-17T04:58:00.000-07:00

I'm serious. Here's why:

He is always beyond happy to see me, even when I come home late from work and ignore him.

He is an excellent listener.

He has a tenderness reserved just for me.

He sleeps with me at night, just within reach in case I have a nightmare, but not so close as to crowd me.

He is incredibly protective, yet not possessive

He is peppy and playful.

He is very smart. I'm serious. I do have a smart dog.

He likes my kids.

He'll eat anything, even food off the floor,which is very efficient.

He keeps himself fit and clean.

He is never rude or disrespectful.

He is willing to go anywhere with me and loves to explore.

He loves just hanging with me.

He supports my interests. For example, he is at my feet as I write this just to be near me, but doesn't need to intrude.

He never lets me down. (O.K., one time he dumped the kitchen garbage can, but no one is perfect).

He never humps my leg in the middle of the night.

New Tunes to Share

2009-04-11T17:45:00.000-07:00

I. LOVE. MUSIC. All kinds, all genres. I have been so into finding new stuff. I am now into a lot of hip hop since my 11-year old is listening to that. Latest fav here is "Blame It" by Jamie Foxx (yes that Jamie Fox). Two years ago I added country to my favs.

The other night while cruising through iTunes I found an awesome mix of new stuff, mostly new artists I haven't ever heard before with a few obvious exceptions. The title of the play list was "Love or Lust." Check it out.

Dreaming With a Broken Heart, John Mayer
Dreamlover, Mariah Carey
Let's Fall In Love, Diana Krall
Step Right Up, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
You Give Me Something*, James Morrison
Use to Be the One, Paul Sabo
I'm Still In Love With You, Seal
Stop and Stare, OneRepublic
Last Train Home, Ryan Star
Loving You, Loving Me, Dave Barnes
Believe, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
Damn Regret, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

*Click here to check out James Morrison, my favorite on this mix

P.S. a new friend just turned me on to Ryan Adams and Tom Waits. Two totally different guys, but equally interesting. Go to iTunes and check it all out.

Security Code

2009-04-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

This will be short, but as I was posting a comment on my girl, Mocha Freak's blog tonight, I was prompted to "Type the characters you see in the picture above" since comment moderation was enabled. All comments must be approved by the blog author. You know what I mean.

The word verification was "poota." WTF? Where does this come from? I'm pretty sure that's what my ex-mother-in-law from the heart of Kentucky calls her va-jay-jay.

Moments

2009-04-07T18:53:00.000-07:00

It's true what they say about moments. Life is made up of a collections of moments. Moments that define us, moments that enlighten us, moments that humble us, moments of exhilaration, moments of regret, moments of sheer joy.

One of the very best moments I have had in a long time happened the other day. A simple, exchange between my 11-year old son and me while we were out on a bike ride. I had to capture it to preserve the purity and beauty of it.

He simply said, "I love you, Mom."

To which I responded "I love you more."

"Not possible." he said.

The New Adventures of Old Molly

2009-04-05T18:47:00.000-07:00

Did you ever hear of that SitCom with Julia Louis Dreyfus called "The New Adventures of Old Christine?" I never watched and I always thought, "What a dumb title. What the hell does that mean? It's too long to even remember."

Well now I get it. As each day passes I feel more and more like the old "me." And I am starting to have this new life now that my divorce is on the visible horizon. I am having new adventures and yet feeling sometimes sooo like the old me. Call it a lightbulb moment or whatever, but at least I get it now.

The only thing I have to be careful of is making the same old mistakes, especially with men. Thank God for my therapist!

True Confessions of a 6-Year Old

2009-04-04T18:31:00.000-07:00

1. "I ate two worms last weekend. Actually, three. I just swallowed them. Yes, they were alive. They didn't really taste like anything."

2. "I peed in the fireplace. I had no where else to go."

3. "O.K., I did write those curly-qs all over your desk with a pen."

4. "I only carved a little bit in to Maggies's new seat with Dad's pocket knife."

5. "I only squeezed his nose. I'm sure it didn't hurt." (Then why did the dog
yelp?)

6. "No, I'm not wearing any underwear today."

I can't make this shit up.

Lucky Me

2009-03-20T19:04:00.000-07:00

I got pulled over today for going 51 in a 35 MPH area. Didn't even know I was being pulled over until I jumped out of the car at the bakery and an officer approaches me,"Liscense and registration please..."

So I pause for a heartbeat and asses the likelihood that I could talk my way out of it. That thought lasted a nano-second. 22-years olds with big ones are able to do that, not 44-year olds with none, two kids and a dog in a dirty, dented minivan.

So while the officer is back at his car, with lights still flashing writing me my $119 ticket, the boys are looking out the back of the van at the flashing lights and I hear my Wild Man say to his brother,

"Well if he takes our mudder, we still have daddy."

So that's what it has come to.

How Much is Enough?

2009-03-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

Now the bums from A.I.G. are taking bonuses while their company goes under? What's with these people? I mean really isn't it more important to keep jobs for those who rely on you? Isn't it critical to make the numbers whatever it takes? How can this be a choice at all after what happened to Merill Lynch and those greedy bastards?

How can you live with yourself knowing your company got a zillion dollars in bailout money as you cash your one million dollar bonus check? I do believe in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I believe in the American Dream, but I also believe in "doing the right thing." These guys just don't have a clue. And the sad part is there are probably many, many others who are couting their lucky stars each day that they don't get found out.

And while I'm at it, why doesn't Oprah kick in some cash toward the bailout. Surely she has more than enough.

Child Labor

2009-03-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

This is it. I have hit an all time low or maybe not. But wanted to put this out there to take a poll. Hoping you don't report me to Child Services.

My guys are always asking me to buy them stuff. Junk. Crap. Stuff that ends up all over my house. Stuff that they break. Stuff that they quickly tire of. Five Below bargains that satisfy only a brief craving for more STUFF.

I have always been a big proponent of my kids earning money. I give my guys odd jobs so they can earn their own money for the stuff. Some times it's picking up sticks in the yard, helping with the leaves, vacuuming, weeding, you get the picture. Recently I have reached my limit on cleaning a bathroom for two boys who have no concept of aiming or lifting the lid. Seriously it just grosses me out. So my Wild Man asked for a job to earn money for stuff, mostly candy since he is a self proclaimed candy-aholic. So I said, "Here's some anti-bacterial wipes, go clean the bathroom. Be sure to wipe up all the pee that's everywhere within a 5-foot radius of the john." He was actually quite proficient and has successfully completed the task a few times now.

So this weekend, we wake up on Saturday and I get "Mom, can we earn some money?"

"Oh yes boys I have just the job for you and you can do it together!" I hand them each a pair of rubber gloves and a plastic grocery bag and tell them they can pick up the dog poop from the yard.

"How much will you pay us?"

"One million dollars. Oh, I mean one dollar each."

Sounded good to them although had they bargained I would have upped it since it really was a skanky job. They go out there and immediately I hear the complaining.

"Mom, can you come out here. There is so much poop, we might not be able to get it all."

At this point they have not picked up one tidbit. As a point of clarification, we have a 15 pound Shi Tzu. He really doesn't do that much damage. But to the kids' credit there was more than usual since our new yard is small and we hadn't done it in a while.

"Just do it guys. It's not that bad."

Immediately my older one, who is the one prone to crying, begins to complain that it's gross, smelly and squishy. How can I expect them to do this?

For fear of grossing you all out, I will cut to the chase. The older one barfed up his entire lunch inthe yard after about ten minutes on poopy duty and the Wild Man came screaming into the house with dog crap all over his shoes to announce that the big guy was "puking in the back yard, even though I told him to think of it as chocolate."

Game over. I paid them each $2. Go ahead call the cops on me.

Who Knew?

2009-03-10T19:18:00.000-07:00

I have a very important news flash. Listen up, as I am sure this will change the way you think about things for the rest of your life. No I am not predicting when this "L" shaped economy will begin the much needed up-tick. And I have no idea when we will truly be out of Iraq. And can't even tell you exactly why Nadia Suleman (sp?) decided to have another 100 kids and why her fertility doctor hasn't lost his licence for good.

No, what I am about to tell you is so fricking insignificant it will make you gag, yet you will be amazed when you learn what I learned today. Buckle up.

She Uemura Eyelash Curler.

Does it mean anything to you? Well I knew nothing about it until I read "The Devil Wears Prada" about four years ago and that book said it was the best eyelash curler to be had. In fact, the main character was ridiculed for NOT even knowing what it was for God's sake. So on a desperately-chasing-my-youth kind of day on or around my 40th birthday, I went to Sephora and paid the $18.00 for the thing. It was a disappointment. I didn't see the difference from my Maybelline brand I had since I was, oh 14 or so. But out of deference to "those who know," I continued to use it religiously.

Flash forward 4 years. The She Uemura ain't working so good anymore so I figured it needed a new rubber-thingy insert. So I went back to Sephora to purchase the insert. Surely that was all I needed and how much could that cost? Certainly not as much as I paid for the thing. I breeze in and ask the nice gentle(gay)man where I might find the She Uemera Eyelash Curler replacement pads (like I knew what I was asking for-HA!). Guess what? They weren't expensive at all. Know why? They. Don't. Sell. Them.

I was told "Oh no, you must replace your entire eyelash curler. It loses it's shape and doesn't function properly anymore. Really they should only last about six months."

"SIX MONTHS???? Are you kidding me?"

"You could damage your eyes or tear out your lashes if you don't replace it."

"Hmmm. And how much is it? $19.00, you say? Well let me try the She Uemura brand and let me try the Sephora generic brand please."

OK, pinch left with She Uemura. Pinch right with generic brand. Of course there was no difference. At least the sales associate told me she saw no difference either. So I bought the Sephora brand for $16.00. What a bargain shopper I am, huh?

Now you must all rush out and replace your eyelash curlers right away. It is critical to the existence of all womankind. Spread the word.

P.S. I also bought some of that mineral powder foundation stuff. We'll see how that works.

P.S.S. Some days I am just a shallow bi-atch. I should have bought a new one for 4 bucks at CVS,but I felt like treating myself. I need serious cosmetic intervention.

Good Days, Bad Days

2009-03-01T18:36:00.001-08:00

I love the fact that any given day only lasts 24 hours. On the really bad days I count down to when I can go to sleep and start fresh the very next day. And the great thing is, it's actually rare to have two totally horrible days in a row. For example Saturday was a reeeeeeaaaaalllly bad day for me. I actually knew it would be since the night before there was an event that foreshadowed the impending doom to come.

See my Wild Man had his buddie sleep over on Friday night. He is always feeling left out since his older brother, who is now 11, has a social calendar busier than Hannah Montanna's. The older one is easy-going and very likable. One of his buddie's moms once commented he could be a "rent-a-friend" since he was so easy to have around. So every weekend he's invited for sleepovers and play dates and the like. The little one doesn't understand why he doesn't have the same set up. For one he is just too young and for two he ain't the "rent-a-friend" type. He is more of an acquired taste. So we invited his buddy over for pizza and a movie and a sleepover. They got along famously with nary a disagreement, got all suited up for bedtime, brushed teeth and listened to two stories. Tucked in happy as clams in the bunk beds. My guy passed out while his buddy struggled to fall asleep. So I hear a little rustling and I check out the situation. The poor guy starts crying and says he wants to go home. No problem. I call his dad and say we have a MasterCard moment going on and he was picked up shortly.

Once he left, the doom set in. I knew when Wild Man woke up he would be heartbroken. How bad could it be?

6:30AM: "Hey Mom!!!! Where's David*?"

*name changed to protect the innocent

I explain the situation and he immediately begins to cry. 6 f-ing 30 in the morning! And so the next 8 hours were filled with complete misery for both of us. Poor Wild Man, he has ADHD in a pretty significant way and some days he just can't keep it together, especially after all his hopes and dreams are dashed. I am dramatic for a reason. He sees things through a very intense prism. So I began to count the hours until bedtime at round noon. LONG. DAY.

It was a bad day. I wanted to medicate myself to keep from doing all the bad things they catch parents doing to their kids on mall parking lot cameras.

But today, today was a really good day. Complete with smiles, kisses, kindness, laughter and going to bed without issue. So I have to remind myself 24 hours can be long or in the case of today, very, very short.

Me and Wild Man

Pedicure a Go-Go

2009-02-25T18:18:00.000-08:00

Today I could no longer look at my mutalated toenails. I mean really my feet were an utter disgrace. Truth is I really wanted to wear my hot, red suede peep-toe shoes to work today and couldn't because of the Freddy Kruger shit going on with my toes.

So at lunch today, I quick ran to the salon in my building to get a pedi. I ended up with a technician whom I have had before and wasn't psyched to get today because she always talk, talk, talks and usually I just want to sleep, sleep, sleep. But she is harmless and so sweet. I was telling her I had finally moved out and how happy I was to be free of the 15-year dead weight that nearly killed me. And she asked me if I had a "friend", you know a "special friend." She says we all need a friend with benefits. She is a divorced mother with twins so her "friends" are legit or whatever you say when it's OK to have friends like that.

She can basically carry on a conversation with herself so somehow she meandered into how to really get a guy to go crazy for you - and I don't mean emotionally. She proceeded to tell and SHOW me how to do a little dance that will result in the guy literally chasing you around the room. This ain't no Macarena either she was telling me about. She says you have to wear really racy undies/bra and then pull out a chair. I asked if she had music and if it she felt it was necessary to have it. She said no, just the dancing will do. Anyway she then stood up to demonstrate a few of her best moves. Yes, she stood up in the salon, but we were back in a little private area so no one could see her when she showed me how to grind. She said it was really "hot" to lick your finger and suck it- another display that was a tad uncomfortable for me to witness. There was no stopping her. It was clear she felt it was her duty to share. But when she went in to how to touch yourself, I held up my hand. "Really, I get what you are saying here. You don't have to go on."

She told me she knew I was the shy type and that I should feel good stepping outside of myself to get my needs met. I am anything but shy, but still this is a little too far for even me to step.

My toes look great though.

Talented Kids

2009-02-22T14:00:00.000-08:00

This really isn't a blog to say much. The photos speak for themselves. These are my kids and man are they talented. Bet you never knew there were multpile uses for tampons and straws.

Bright Side of the Road

2009-02-21T14:08:00.001-08:00

Well,it's been nearly a month since I've blogged. And what a month it has been. It takes a lot to keep me from opening my mouth and putting it out there. In short, I am now on my own, new place, new freedom, happy kids and a very happy me.

In fact I re-introduced myself to my old BFF, me. She ain't half bad. I realize now how much I missed her. She is a funny woman who has so much to offer to her kids, her friends, her career, her cause. I just never gave her much credit and always thought she was being strangled by her husband and the circumstances life continued to throw at her. I thought she might be gloomy the rest of her life. And honestly, I just didn't like being with her. I had basically given her up as a lost cause.

Then one day four years ago she began to shed. Remember the "Shedding" blog? Takes a lot to shed 15 years of bad habits and self doubt. She began to exercise again. She exercised her body, her opinion, her right to be respected. She realized that life wasn't half over, but that it could possibly begin again and be better than she could ever imagine. She listened to her pain, her honesty, her instinct. And slowly, with baby steps, she moved out on to the thin ice. And guess what? It didn't crack. As she moved toward the Sun and away from the dark, dark Clouds, she grew stronger and stronger and stronger. Her mind, her body, her confidence, all more powerful than before.

Someone asked her what her story was. It's a long story, but it's just not over yet. And as the song goes, "The best is still unwritten."

I. AM. BACK.

M.I.A.

2009-01-23T16:55:00.000-08:00

Can't believe it's been so long since I've blogged. Truth is my life is in a topspin, both professionally and personally. Suffice it to say, I can't say a lot right here, right now, which is tough for a loud mouth like me. I feel like I have the whole damn lemon tree in the "when life gives you lemons" scenario.

The one thing I do know, now even more than when my daughter was born, is that I can survive and I will be happy again. It amazes me how much folks can handle when the fickle finger of fate flips you off. I've seen it up close and I've seen it from a distance and I am truly amazed. My life is surreal right now. If I take one minute to really think about all that's going on I can easily see how it's possible to never get my ass out of bed again. But then the kids smile and give a warm hug and a colleague pulls through for me and an unexpected friend shows up in a powerful way. We aren't born strong, we figure out how to be strong, but no one can do it alone.

I'm so thankful I'm not alone right now. Keep me in your thoughts and don't give up on me. I'll be back on a more regular basis soon.

Hope you are all well.

New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

I've decided to be bold this year. Publishing my resolutions right here will put more pressure on me to try to stick to them. Let's face it, this year should be a doozy and I need to shore up my defenses to make sure I can face it with dignity, courage, confidence and pride. That's why my resolutions are called the "3 Bs."

1. Botox: My friend in Chicago swears by it. I think I am the President of the "Number 11" Club. You know those horrible lines that form right between your brows when you furrow? Only mine are there even when I am sleeping. 'Nuff said about that.

2. Boobs: If any of you know me, you know I have been discussing (read as obsessing) this for a LONG time now. I even went to see a snazzy plastic surgeon just to get an idea of what it would take and how it might work. Needless to say it takes a lot of bucks and some recovery time. Two years ago, my husband offered to buy them for me for my birthday. There were two problems with this; first was that we were on the verge of the end of the relationship (which we have reached as I write this, oh but that's another story for another time). And the second problem was, he found a Doctor who could do it for a deal. Turns out the deal doctor was the good looking, narcissist, Dad of one of the kids on my son's football team. NO WAY! You don't get a guy you know to give you the rack of a lifetime. Not to mention that I knew his wife and not to mention that he gave me the creeps any way. So this just proves that I do have some sense of pride if I turned down a discounted boob job from my soon to be ex-husband.

But still I want them, big time. I don't mean I want big ones, I just want something more than the AA petite that my heavily padded bras require. In fact the fancy doctor who gave me the initial look-see wanted to go all Pam Anderson on me. As I looked through the photo album of all of the before and after shots (yes, it was real), I noticed one thing, they were all Pam Andersons. So even though this guy came highly recommended, I will not return to him. I don't want my jugs sticking up out of my coffin in forty years.

But I will have to find a way to finance them and will have to wait until after triathlon season. Don't need to mess with the training. Mark my words, though, 2009 will be the year of the breasts for me. I am taking up a collection. Let me know if you'd like to add me to your United Way donation.

3. Booty Call: I like the idea of a third "B" and I am the one who says it all out loud. So here I am with this. Not sure where my head is actaully at with all of this and am not sure how one goes about getting this at my age, but I guess it's OK to resolve for it and see how it goes. I'll probably have a better chance after I accomplish goals 1 & 2.

Christmas Tears

2008-12-26T07:36:00.000-08:00

Most Moms would be distraught if their kids cried at Christmas. Not me. That's exactly what I was hoping for. Allow me to explain.

I am a video game Nazi. I have been anti-video game from day 1 with my kids. Seriously we have no PSP, Game Cube, Nintendo thingy, no Wii, nothing. I tell them their brains will slowly leak out of their ears if they have those things and that leading a sedentary video game life style will lead to serious social issues as adults. Most of this is drama to support the increasing pressure I get from them to pleeeeaasssse get them something. And I have no problem with them playing it at their friends' houses. My oldest is 11 and let's face it, he will most likely be socially ostracized sooner or later for not having any of that stuff. (I think I'm half kidding, but it does cross my mind.)

So last year I broke the slightest bit and got Number 1 a Nintendo DS (a used one) for Christmas. He was shocked and amazed and overjoyed to say the least. He has been saving his own money so he can buy a used Game Cube. "I think I can get one for $50."

This year the Christmas lists were not very big. I was feeling like the kids didn't have that one great thing to rock their world. Usually I have been able to get them something each year that they never expected (like last year's DS or the year they both got go-karts). About a week before Christmas I decided this would be the year of the Wii. I caved. I told myself they will get exercise and we can all enjoy it together. Fortunately I found the last one in the area, snapped it up, along with the latest version of Rock Band and a few other things (nearly $700!!! Thank God for credit).

So on Christmas morning after all the gifts had been opened and the guys began to say "Is that it? Anything else?", we told them to go downstairs to watch one of their new videos to chill out. Little did they know the Wii was set up, the entire Rock Band outfit, and waiting. So when they went down into the basement they saw it. My oldest yelled "ROCK BAND!! WE GOT A WII. WE GOT A WII!" They did a little victory dance with lots of jumping and screaming. I then got tackled by my big guy who hugged me sooooo tight and said "Thank you, thank you." with tears streaming down his cheeks. Real tears.

It's really true that it is in giving that we receive.

Cherish

2008-12-22T14:07:00.000-08:00

I will admit it, I am feeling very sappy these days. May have to do with the impending new year and all of the impending changes in my life (see my updated profile), but I have to tell you, I love my girl friends. I have been blessed my entire life to have an amazing group of women in my life who:

prop me up, laugh with me, encourage me, listen, cry with me, drink with me, love my kids, remind me of who I am, keep me sane, sit up with me in an expensive hotel and talk all night, humor me and my obsessive nature (especially regarding men), spoon me during a sleep over when I am so lonely I can taste it, knock sense in me, tell me I'm really not all that flat and then say "Well yeah, a little boob job might help," make me work out when I don't want to, eat sweets with me, laugh at me, cry for me and tell it like it is.

I share this blog with them and write it for them as much as me, often hoping to add humor or insight or perspective as a way of saying thank you.

I read "The Middle Place" by Kelly Corrigan earlier this year and it is a phenomenal book. It's not so much about friends as it is love and family, but she has an incredibly honest way of writing and speaking. Recently she popped up on YouTube with an amazing video, as a tribute to her Friends. Check it out and share it with a special girlfriend in your life. I can't think of a better Christmas gift.

Coffee Shop Truisms

2008-12-20T05:38:00.000-08:00

I decided to splurge and go to Starbucks the other day. I was feeling really down and miserable, so I figured a five-dollar specialty drink might be the pick-me-up I need.

While standing in line, a woman walks up and says "I need a Grande with two pumps..."

And I'm thinking, "So do I sister, so do I."

I guess it's not the specialty drink that I need after all.

Mother's Pride

2008-12-12T17:29:00.000-08:00

My oldest has been taking piano since first grade, I guess that's four years now. He never really asked or even complained but went along with it. I had it in my mind that this is a critical skill and that, unlike my parents, I will basically force him to take lessons until he is 16. Yes, I guess this is probably not psychologically balanced, but I didn't think it would do much harm. And how happy would he be later in life when he could sit down at a piano and play? I mean doesn't everyone wish they could do that?

He began his lessons at 6 with a spinster musician who taught him the basics, but she lacked a bit of connection to him. Still he didn't complain and kept practicing, although not fervently. Last year in 4th grade he heard another classmate play the piano at the end of the year. He came home very deflated that day, complaining that he hated piano and that he stunk at it. He told me she was amazing and I could tell he felt inadequate. I lectured about practicing and sticking with it and blah, blah, blah. Of course this did not help the situation.

He began to ask me if he could quit and repeatedly told me he hated it. We even had so much drama over it that he tried to run away one night. Now for those of you who think I am Mommy Dearest, let me just say he got as far as the garage. But clearly I needed to start to listen to him.

I was telling my father my dilemma and he told me his first piano teacher changed his life. He loved her and was so connected to her and inspired by her. He played with her until he was 16 when she became too old to teach anymore. My father is a beautiful musician and I come from a family of six kids, all of whom play at least 2 instruments, except me. (I'm sure there's alot of Freudian stuff going on here...)

So I asked my son if he'd like to try a new teacher and he agreed. This time I found a fresh faced college grad who is rather bohemian. At his first lesson she asked him what music he liked to listen to. He had never been asked this by his previous teacher. His eyes almost popped out of the socket and he looked at me as if to ask "Is it okay for me to tell her?." When he told her he liked Cold Play, she stepped out of the room and into the music store where she teaches. She came back with a book of modern music and asked if he saw anything in there he liked. Nearly speechless, he picked out a song by Rhianna and she said, "OK, let's start with this."

He has been taking lessons with her for just three months and she recently asked if he'd like to participate in a recital. His previous teacher held recitals twice a year and he never wanted to join in. Without hesitation he told her yes and began working on his song.

The big night came on December 10th at 7PM. I hurried home from work and picked up both boys for the big show. They came running out of the house in what we call "church clothes" with their hair slicked across their heads and the little one even had a tie on!

We got to the recital hall and were handed our program. My son was to go last, after nearly 12 others. Lots of pressure, I would think but he was calm and even excited. The recital was precious and opened with a pint-sized peanut of a girl, at best 4 years old, who had to sit on two cushions to even reach the keys. Absolutely darling. As the performers came and went, I was glad to see that they were not virtuosos. In fact, some of the kids older than my guy flubbed. So at least it appeared to be a level playing field (no pun intended).

Finally his time came and my beautiful baby, halfway between boyhood and manhood, walked calmly and confidently out on the stage. He took his seat at this huge grand piano and removed his right shoe. I took a deep breath as he began to play and I was simply blown away. He played with drama and passion and looked like he was a bit lost in it all, not to mention he played the piece perfectly. His song? The theme from Star Wars. In the three minutes or so that it took him to play the whole thing, I was struck with this depth of emotion that was rooted in pride, tinged with relief and even a bit of sadness. He is growing up and finding his own way.

He has never been a great athlete, but plays sports because he likes the camaraderie. He is a good student, but this - this expression of himself, all by himself, alone on a stage in front of fifty people was overwhelming to me.

He had the big dramatic finish to the song, complete with his hands lifting gracefully in the air after the last note was pounded out. He put his right shoe back on and took a bow.

I wish my father had been there.

I am forever changed by it.

Here he is with his inspiration, his wonderful teacher, Sarah

p.s. he took off his shoe so he could really feel the pedal since it was a piano he had never played before.

Potty Humor

2008-12-11T19:35:00.000-08:00

My dear friend was at an annual Christmas luncheon the other day enjoying a bit of "me time" with the girls. Apparently her cell phone was ringing off the hook and it was the school nurse calling to ask her to please come pick up her second grade son as he appeared to be sick. Since she didn't have the phone strapped on her person like most men do, she didn't hear it or get the message for quite a while. Meantime Nurse Ratchet from the Elementary School is on a mission and calls the husband to come pick up their son. Apparently the little guy had an accident in his pants, and I'm not talking #1. Of course there is fretting that it's the stomach flu. "We have tried to reach your wife several times to no avail and of course he is quite ill and needs to be picked up." So the Dad gets on the train, yes the train, and schleps all the way out to the 'burbs to pick up his poor, sick son. Did I mention the husband is NOT happy about this?

My friend does eventually get the message and high tails it over to the school arriving at the same time as her husband. Needless to say there was a bit of harrumphing from him. She takes the lad home and asks what happened.

"Well, Mom, I had to go to the bathroom reeeal bad and when I got there it was dark in there, an' I couldn't find the light, an' I really had to go, an did you know that bathroom is haunted, cause it is, an' all the kids say that, an' I was not going in there, but I had to go so bad I couldn't hold it. So that's what happened. Oh an' then when I went to the nurse's office I had to go again an' then I used so much toilet paper I clogged the potty an' the janitor had to come and unclog it."

Is it just me or is that hysterical?

p.s. My friend emailed the teacher to ask her to please make sure the lights are always on in the second grade bathroom and asked if she might want to kill the haunted potty rumor too.

p.s.s. I don't think he was severely traumatized over the event, although I should stop laughing long enough to find out.

S.A.D.

2008-12-06T17:41:00.000-08:00

"Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), also known as winter depression or winter blues, is a mood disorder in which people who have normal mental health throughout most of the year experience depressive symptoms in the winter."

Not sure if it's the dark mornings, dark evenings, cold weather or grey clouds at all. It may just be my SAD life. Welcome to my pity party. It's Saturday night and here I sit downloading new music, shopping QVC.com and wondering what is wrong with me. Granted I have had a cold for the past few days that has me more tired than usual. I have my kids plugged in to a movie so I can get an hour plus of relatively uninterrupted silence. I should be doing laundry, I should be cleaning something, I should be putting up Christmas decorations, I should be making photo books for my kids and families, I should be doing something more than feeling blue.

Now I totally understand why Scarlett O'Hara said, "Oh fiddley dee, I'll think about it tomorrow at Tara."

"Why Am I Always So Tired?"

2008-12-03T19:52:00.000-08:00

Do you ask yourself this question every fricking day like me? I mean I usually go to bed a the shameful hour of 10PM each night. I wish I could stay awake until midnight to do stuff for me, but it's just not possible. Even with hitting it on the early side I am still sooooo tired every day.

No, I don't have Epstein Bar Syndrome. But last night as I lay awake, exhausted it occurred to me. I am tired because I never get a full night's sleep, ever. Here's how it goes in my bed each night. After multiple trips back and forth to the three kids' rooms to address their critical needs:

"Mom, um, can you um, get me some water?" (that's the 11 year old, still asking for water)

"Moooooommmmmmmyyyyyyy, I can't sleep. Turn the closet light on. Can you sleep me?" (6 year old)

"Beep, beep, beep." (Maggie's feeding pump has a clog and needs to be re-set. Admittedly the only real critical need of any of them)

Then I get all settled in to bed to read and I get a few more requests from the peanut gallery. Up and down, up and down.

OK, finally I breathe out and get situated yet again. Then the dog (Ricky) comes in and sandwiches me one one side while the cat takes the opposite side. Why is it that everyone has to be touching the Mommy when they sleep? I spread them out and turn out the light and begin the process of slowing down my mind to attempt to fall asleep.

Just as I enter that glorious phase of near sleep and relaxation, the night nurse, who cares for Maggie, enters the house and the dog jumps up, busts through my bedroom door and barks ("Ricky, shut the F up") I don't say it out loud, but you can bet I think it very loud.

Settle in again, by now it's 11:15PM. Enter REM sleep and Wild Man, the 6 year old, begins his nightly shouting that he has to go potty and can I come get him. I tear out of bed cause ain't nobody want to change soaked sheets at any hour of the day or night. Go get him, escort him to the potty and remind him "In the water, In the Water, IN THE WATER, NOT ON THE WALL!" Man boys are a pain. I wipe up the stuff that inevitably goes everywhere but the water and escort him out.

He now insists on sleeping in my bed and out of exhaustion I concede. Get resettled. Re-enter dog on left side, cat re-adjusts and squishes from the right, and Wild Man has to have his entire hot little, sweaty six year old body plastered to mine.

I do finally fall asleep, but there is the hot breath in my face (child and dog), the occasional nightmare from the pooch who growls and barks and of course the kicking.

So now that I reflect upon it. Maybe I get why I am so burnt every day.

And the sad irony of it is when I travel for business and have a huge hotel bed all to myself, I still don't sleep because it's a strange bed. Maybe I just need Ambien.

Number One

2008-11-26T15:14:00.000-08:00

My oldest is upset because he doesn't get a lot of play on my blog. He has a point. Number Three is a wild man and every day he provides me with more than enough fodder to fill this thing.

Today though Number One had a break through. We were at the grocery with all the other wackos the day before Thanksgiving - trolling the aisles for all the crap that we need. Finally we make it to the last aisle (the milk and yogurt aisle) and as I am loading up on Yoplait (Hooray! Our preferred yogurt is thankfully on special today). Number One picks up a Dulce de Leche flavor and says "Douche de Leche?"

"Mom what's a douche?"

"What did you say?"

"Douche de Leche. What's that?"

"Um... it's something women use to clean their private parts. So I don't think it tastes too good, do you?"

"Probably not."

Fortune Teller

2008-11-23T16:56:00.000-08:00

Today I took the boys to the Hallmark store to pick up a card for my friend who had just run her first marathon. The store was teeming with all things holiday and knick-knacky, so we got sucked in for a bit.

The little one, my most curious, who gets a lot of play on this blog came across this hysterical fortune teller like object. Actually, it was more like a talking Magic 8-Ball, except it features the "Hoops & Yoyo" characters that are showing up everywhere.

So these cute little guys with the munchkin voices are sitting on a couch and you pose a question, press a button and a prerecorded funny answer comes back. Things like "absolutely, no way dude, hahahahaha..." Actually pretty funny.

So Buster gets the hang of it and says "What should I ask it, Mom?"

How about "Should I take a bath tonight?"

So he speaks eagerly toward the little chatchka and then presses the button. And so it goes...

So we have some fun, show it to his brother and I say, "Time to go guys. Buster, put that fortune teller thing back please." So as he is walking away I hear him ask it in quite a loud voice

"Should I scratch my balls while I eat popcorn?"

I didn't hear the answer since I was choking on my own laughter and also quite embarrassed. I hear from across the aisle "Don't worry none of us heard that." from one of the 20 people who in fact did hear that.

Definition

2008-11-15T11:30:00.000-08:00

As I approach my 44th birthday, I continue to think about what it is I have learned so far that's important. I have also been thinking alot about "what defines" me and others I love. I am focused now on my mother. What defined her? How would my five siblings answer that question? How does my Dad answer it?

My mom passed away on June 17, 1986 after a fast and furious battle with lung cancer. I was 21 years old. A lifetime smoker and not good at taking care of her health, in many ways it wasn't a surprise to me that she died young. She was 53.

I guess lots of people get more and more introspective as they age. Thinking about what could have been, why things are the way they are and striving to find true joy in what is. I am actually quite a joyful person in spite of a very dramatic life by many standards.

It's hard to be objective about yourself. I'd be interested in how others think I am defined. So the best I can come up with is how I hope to be defined. And these are things I strive toward:

Honest, heartfelt and reliable in all that I do, but especially in my role as mother

Fun and Funny

Empathetic

Passionate about my children, my relationships, my career and myself

Approachable and confident all at once

True

I did come across a quote recently that sort of started this whole "defining" thing, and it is true for me about Maggie. And while my love for her is powerful and indescribable, my sadness co-exists with that.

"Time heals all wounds, but this becomes the defining sadness of your life."

Thankfully I have many more things that are the defining happiness of my life.

Happy Birthday to Me.

Save a Horse. Ride a Cowboy.

2008-11-14T10:21:00.000-08:00

I watched the Country Music Awards the other night and found a bunch of new songs I love. I am a recent country music fan and not just becasue my life reads like a bad country song.

I heard this awesome song called "Save a Horse. Ride a Cowboy." by Big and Rich. I really like the notion. As a child I loved horses, but now I think I just like cowboys. So here are a few cowboys I might ride (simply to save a horse, of course).

The Stetson Man

Brad Paisley

The all-time best cowboys around.

Now there is one cowboy I would NOT like to ride.

Shedding

2008-11-11T13:00:00.000-08:00

I have a notion that as we age we shed. We shed years, naivete, innocence, anxiety and relationships that are no longer fulfilling. The definition of shed is to cast off or let fall (leaves, hair, feathers, skin, shell, etc.) by natural process. Natural process, not intentional, but natural.

I have seen many people drop out of my life. Those who at one time I believed I could not live without. Friends, lovers, professionals, parents... There is grace in getting older. I am beginning to see it now. I am growing more comfortable with my decisions and with rejection from others. My life has been a constant journey to please others, the satisfaction of being needed, wanted, and necessary has driven me. At times this journey has been incredibly joyful and at others unnecessarily painful.

I believe shedding is a natural progression of self love and respect. It is hard to maintain relationships that are not reciprocal. At first I thought it was just me, but now I see it all around me.

My experience with my daughter Maggie forced me to realize that I only have so much room in my heart and life for painful things. She helps me prioritize every day and see the beauty in the simple moments. Her presence is the compass of my life in many ways. I do believe that our hearts are incredibly resilient in their capacity to care, but I now know that they cannot contain endlessly.

Shedding allows us to clean out our own hearts and provides necessary breathing room to open the doors again and let others in.

Never Old Enough

2008-11-09T12:06:00.000-08:00

Today I went to the most hysterical movie I have seen in a long time. Zack and Miri Make a Porno. The promos on TV can't really give you insight into how funny it really is, but the people I went with had heard it was very good. And since I never, ever get to see "grown up" movies anymore, and since I can always use a healthy does of laughter, I agreed to go. So we get our popcorn and Diet Coke (my daily dose) and get all settled into the theater. The lights go down and away we go...

The lead character is Seth Rogen, the goofy guy from Knocked Up, and I'm not sure if the scripts he gets are loaded with the f-bomb or if that's his own special improv touch. Either way the f-bomb is dropped every other word. Doesn't offend me, in fact it's one of my favorite expressions, but I can only say it at work since I have the three young kids thing going on. Anyway, the f-bombs were not the issue. The premise of the movie is two high school friends are down on their luck (no heat, no money, close to loosing their apartment) and decide there is lots of money in porn. They decide to put together a cast for a porno that they think they can sell and therefore ease their money woes. The friends are a guy and girl who've been best buddies since first grade.

It's hilarious and sweet all at once (the sweetness comes from the relationship between the friends). However since the business idea is making a porno, you can imagine that there is lots of talk about all kinds of things that make people blush (at the very least). So I won't ruin it for you, but let me just say that the scene where the fake blonde with the huge Pam Anderson boobs is doing it with a tattooed dude in all kinds of crazy, painful looking positions on the counter of a coffee house had me feeling embarrassed. Not because of the material, but because I was at the movies with my 78 year old father and his wife!!! My Dad was giggling away, as was his wife. Still there are some things you are just never old enough to do with your parents. This movie rates among the top ten.

So see the movie, just not with your parents.
(link to a trailer above)

Oprah Denied Us

2008-11-03T16:24:00.000-08:00

I wrote the following letter to Oprah in 2003 on behalf of many moms like me. I am still bewildered as to why Tom Cruise (who is a FREAK in my opinion) can do the love dance on Oprah’s almighty couch and she doesn’t think there’s worth in profiling our story. Read on and let me know what you think.

May 11, 2003

Ms. Oprah Winfrey
C/O Mary Hamus
HARPO Productions
Chicago, Illinois

Dear Oprah:

I am writing to you on behalf of a very special group of mothers. We are a group of “average American women,” who expected to lead typical lives. We expected to get married and raise a family like everyone else we know. And then Maggie was born. And Ryan was born. And Emily was born. And Cate was born. We each have a child who is profoundly handicapped.

The births of our children and their subsequent conditions have changed us. Most days we try to convince ourselves it is change for the good. The loss of the children we thought we were going to have is unending. There isn’t anything worse that we can imagine, except perhaps the loss of the children we did have.

Each month we meet as a group to discuss the challenges of raising a child with profound disabilities. Last month at our “Mothers’ only” meeting, we began to talk about your show and your “Celebrate Your Spirit” segment. While all of us believe that is it critical to do just that, it occurred to us that we are more focused on the challenge of celebrating the spirits of our very special children.

Some of our children walk, none of them talk, and some can’t eat by themselves or even sit up. We have never heard the word “Mama” out of their mouths, although they communicate it each day in their own, very subtle ways. Our grief, desperation and hopelessness have driven us to a place where we have discovered spirits of immense proportion- spirits that even surprise us. Our children have given our lives greater meaning and purpose. Our closest ally has been the passing of time, with which we have come to realize that this spirit and strength miraculously exists and thrives in our precious children - the same that are tragically misunderstood to be weak, retarded, and disabled.

Our support group is the one place we can all be our true, raw selves – more so than anywhere else. It is here we can speak freely about the daily struggle between the loss of the child we thought we’d have and the simple moments that now bring a sense of pride. “She hasn’t been in the hospital in almost a year.” “He pushed up on his forearms for more than a minute.” “She smiled at me today.” It is here that we are free to express our pain, further freeing us to celebrate our joy.

In the grand scheme of things we are extremely fortunate that so many of those close to us have embraced this as much as they can. They have shared our everyday routines and have seen how we cope. Most of them have asked to help out. Sometimes it is the more complicated stuff, like giving medications or attempting to feed. Sometimes it’s as simple as offering to rock the child in the middle of the night so we can finally get some sleep. Some people have practically had to force their help on us, simply because we struggle with feeling as if we are over-burdening others and with wishing we could be for our children everything that they need. These are the people who have tried to share our celebration of these beautiful spirits by coming a little bit into our world. Hopefully they will be there to help us break new ground as we invite a larger public to celebrate our kids and thousands like them throughout the world.

We live in a place we never imagined, a place we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemies. But we are there, and these are our lives. We can either give up or learn to live in spite of it. We can’t give up, mostly for the sake of our husbands or other children, but also for our own sake and the sake of our special needs children. So we choose to live with it, and in every way possible, to live joyfully.

We know we will spend the rest of our lives helping people feel more comfortable around our kids. We can say special needs and handicapped a little more easily now. We park in handicap spots and stroll through the mall with wheelchairs. We have to think about how we will care for our children when they are too heavy to lift. And who will care for them when we’re gone? Or worse yet, what will we do if they precede us in death? There is not a single day that passes without one of these thoughts ricocheting through our minds. Not a single day.

We often hear “God, how do you do it? Boy are you brave.” All the things people say to themselves when they really mean “Thank God it didn’t happen to me.” Believe me, none of us would sign up for this again if given a choice. But the powerful spirits of our children drive us - that and a very primal, maternal instinct to love and protect them in spite of their issues. As time goes on we have each in our own special way come to a crossroads where we have chosen the new course of our lives. We have redefined what is “normal.” We have made a choice to celebrate our loved ones. It is a choice to listen more closely to the happy moments than to the ever-present nagging of loss.

We are writing to you to invite you to meet our children. It is our hope that through you and your show we can raise awareness of people with multiple disabilities. It would be our hope to inspire people to stare less often, to reach out, to look for a new sense of compassion within themselves. Our children cannot give back to society in conventional ways. They have the silent power to affect people profoundly and usually for the better, if only given a chance. Get to know our kids and you’ll see the power of perspective that only they can share. Celebrate our kids and you’ll gain a new compassion that only they inspire.

Thank you for considering the stories of our children.

Sincerely,

Maggie’s Mom Mark’s Mom Casey’s Mom
Ryan’s Mom Jake’s Mom Jenna’s Mom
Jessica’s Mom Matthew & Jessica’s Mom Emily’s Mom
Cate’s Mom Natalie’s Mom Deanna’s Mom
David’s Mom

Mrs. Robinson Revisted

2008-11-02T14:09:00.000-08:00

Not sure I should post this, but it's all-consuming and I'm wondering who else might be able to relate to this.

It all started when I went to see "High School Musical 3-Senior Year" with my two sons and one of their friends yesterday. I have not been sucked in to the "High School Musical" phenomenon at all. Watched both 1 and 2 at home as re-runs or on DVD or something. So yesterday I wasn't at all interested in seeing the movie. It's just that I bribed my kids to do yard work and promised to take them to the movies as their payment. Plus I love sitting in a dark theater with official movie popcorn and a Diet Coke (that qualifies as me time). So that was all in place and the movie begins. Suffice it to say that I loved the movie. Not for the story line, or the acting (if you can call it that), but for the dancing. There were amazingly complicated numbers throughout the entire film. Very impressive and all those kids could rock it. I cannot rock it. I was an "actress" in high school and the first part of college, but never a dancer. They usually say you are either an actor, singer or dancer and it's rare to find someone who can do all three. The dancing was off the hook. So if you appreciate ensemble dancing, go see it.

But the dancing isn't the only reason I liked the film. I am almost ashamed to say that the other reason is Zac Efron, the lead in the show. He is quite simply the best eye candy I have seen in a long time. The film is a Disney production so it is pure and innocent - except for the gratuitous shot of Zac taking his shirt off in the locker room. Hot, hot, hot. I Googled him today to see how old he is - 21. So he is of legal age, but not for a forty-something housewife to drool over. So hoping the feelings will pass and be replaced by the ever increasing hot flashes. I prefer the hot flashes I get from looking at him though.

Here is a recent shot of him. See if what I say is true. I need to get a life!

Great Give Away

2008-10-31T16:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, I am trying to insert a link to tell you about a great give-away that Peeptoe Pumps & Pearls is having, but the stinking link won't insert. She is giving away a strand of pearls she got in China to celebrate her 100th blog.

Ok I have tried 5 times, so here it is the old fashioned way:

www.peeptoepumpsandpearls.blogspot.com

Check it out and comment to enter the give away.

Stepping to the Dark Side

2008-10-31T16:00:00.000-07:00

We just got a WalMart. You'd think with all the hype, we couldn't have survived without it. I have actually only ever been in 1 or 2 WalMarts and was never really impressed. I like their advertising (for the most part), had heard amazing things about their prices and of course looked forward to being greeted upon entrance to the store by an official WalMart "Greeter." (How much do they pay a Greeter anyway?)

So they other day I succumbed. My son and I had to go grocery shopping and I am in a major "save money" mode so I thought that WalMart was the place to go. You know they say "Save money. Live happy." and I could use a little happy and a lot of money right about now. I even armed myself with coupons and a carefully crafted list to maximize my savings. The coupons and the list were a major pain in the butt, but for extra cash I figured it was worth it.

I could probably drag this out and kill you with suspense, but I am manning the door tonight for trick or treaters and have only moments in between getting the door - so I will get to it.

What is all the fuss? I was not impressed at all. In fact I was basically disgusted. The place was lit like an old warehouse and huge beyond belief. I ventured over to the "super WalMart" grocery side of the place only to find a very limited selection. I wasn't looking for fois gras either. I'm talking fresh broccoli (not in a pre packaged bag). Nada, zilch, none to be found. Nary a head of lettuce nor a wide selection of well, anything. So what's all the fuss about? It was like a 7-Eleven on steroids.

So when I go to check out I ask the cashier if they double coupons. She stares at me blankly and after three attempts to explain it (no, I'm not kidding),she says "Uh, yeah we do." I'm not convinced but by now I just want to get out of the junk food capital of the world and get on with my day. The total is $98.00 - an all time low for me, but not because Sam Wall beat down the vendors to provide amazing prices, but because they hardly had anything on my list. And folks the coupons? Of course not doubled like my trusty ACME. But hey I had to try it, right?

And just so you don't think I am a retail snob, I feel compelled to tell you that I simply adore Target and K-Mart has met my needs on many occasions, most of my shoes come from TJ Maxx and Marshall's usually hooks me up. But WalMart? Never again.

Wow, someone noticed...

2008-10-16T17:22:00.000-07:00

I am so excited because I got four posts on my "SECURITY..." blog! It was a hysterical story though and the honest truth, which is what I'm selling here. Anyway, Southern & Preppy gave me this special Smile Award. Look how cool this is. She found my blog and passed this along to me.

Characteristics for the Smile Award:
1. Must display a cheerful attitude. (I am a "glass half full" person and mostly very cheerful, if I do say so myself)
2. Must love one another. (I am the true definition of an extrovert - I thrive on input from others-that's psycho-babble for "people person")
3. Must make mistakes. (More than I can count)
4. Must learn from others. (Best way to evolve)
5. Must be a positive contributor to blog world. (Trying...)
6. Must love life. (It's an exciting journey that rushes by all too quickly)
7. Must love kids. (My own and others, just can't help it)

Apparently in "blog land" there are kinds of things like this that have rules and guidelines. Here's how the "Smile Award" works:

1. The recipient must link back the awards creator. (ok, not 100% sure how to do this, but if this doesn't work can someone spell out how to please?)
2. You must post these rules if you receive the award. (Check)
3. You must choose 5 people to receive the award after receiving it yourself. (Since I am new I only know a few blogs so far)
4. You must fit the characteristics of the recipient of the award, as posted by Mere. (I think I do)
5. You must post the characteristics of a recipient. (Check)
6. You must create a post sharing your win with others. (Check)
7. You must thank your giver. (Check)

The five people that I choose to keep this award going are the following:

Biscuits are NEVER Boring : One of the most kind and cheerful people I know. Honestly a good person down to the bone.

Southern & Preppy : My new blog friend who seems to just love her life.

Caffeine Court: She is funny and calls 'em as she sees 'em

OK, I have to fess up, I don't really know anyone else well enough yet to choose them. I feel like a blogging loser and a fake if I choose someone whose blog I have only read once. Does this mean my lovely award gets taken away from me?

The Cure All

2008-10-10T17:47:00.001-07:00

My little guy, the wild one, just cracks me up. Tonight, just five minutes ago in fact, he was wiggling around and tossing his lovey (aka, Scrappy, a beat up, old stuffed dog he has loved to death since he was 10 mos. old) and just acting a bit cantankerous in general. His father is herding him upstairs to go to bed and I hear him say,

"And don't tell me I have to go poop!"

I laughed out loud so hard I almost fell over. Why is this so funny you ask? Well in his father's world all problems are solved by a good pee or a long spell on the pot. So every time Sam is the slightest bit anything his dad says "You have to go pee? Are you sure you don't need to poop?"

Man if it were only that simple to solve my own problems I'd be a regular consumer of Exlax.

The Tooth Fairy and Her Peeps

2008-10-08T17:42:00.000-07:00

My five year old is beyond inquisitive. Really, he needs the details down to the very last hair of the story. Recently he lost some teeth so of course we have been discussing the Tooth Fairy.

"Mom, how does the tiny Tooth Fairy lift a big boy like me up when I am sleeping so she can get the toof?"

"Well she's quite magical and actually we don't put the tooth so far under the pillow. She is so tiny that she can squeeze under there without you noticing. Plus I think she has a special tool to pull it out from under the pillow."

At this point I'm feeling pretty proud of my answer. It was creative, believable and very quick off the cuff. That ought to do it.

"But Mom, who hangs out with the Tooth Fairy? The Sand Man? And does he have a teeny, tiny car he drives since he is so teeny tiny?"

Me: "Well yes, I'm sure they do hang out together. Maybe he has a tiny car, but the Tooth Fairy just blinks and can go from place to place like magic." (I'm thinking "I Dream of Jeannie" powers here)

Him: "She must be like a ma-genie." That's Sam's combined word for magician/genie.

Me: "That's right she is like a ma-genie."

Him: "I bet the guy who puts the stink bugs in your mouth that give you bad breaf in the morning also is with them too."

Me: "Yeah, I bet he is."

Pause and silence. Maybe 2 seconds, two glorious seconds of silence from him, and then, "Mom, you know who else hangs out with the Tooth Fairy?"

"No, who else?"

Him: "The WEENIE POLISHER. He comes at night to powish (can't say his "Ls") my weenie so it's shiny in the morning."

Now I've heard a lot growing up with four brothers, but this one stumps me and makes me laugh out loud. I'm curious to see if this has any sexual overtones so I ask, "Is the Weenie Polisher a man or a woman."

"Oh, it's a man."

Alrighty then.

SECURITY, Bag Check Over Here!

2008-10-06T17:56:00.000-07:00

Today I had to travel to Boston for a meeting. A simple up and back kind of flight for one quick meeting. I caught a flight at the crack of dawn, sailed through security (even though I had at least three tubes of lipstick and three different tubes of lip gloss in my purse, not in a Ziploc bag). On my way back sailing through security wasn't exactly that easy. I was traveling with another colleague and as I passed through the golden arches of the security check point, I looked back to see how my bags were coming. They weren't coming. I noticed the guy checking the monitor was running the belt back and forth and my stuff wasn't coming out. A bit of panic rises up in my throat as I start to calculate the total investment in lip products in addition to other make up items that may well end up in the trash in Boston. I was not so lucky.

The security team calls for a bag check and I realize it's for me and it's not for my purse, but for my other bag. You know the bag you carry files in and a notebook and a few odd bills you haven't yet paid? Also in this bag is a belt, a phone charger and a VIBRATOR. Yes, that's what I said, a VIBRATOR. It occured to me just like that. I am thinking "Hmmm, what's in there that could cause a problem?" And it hits me that my friend (who shall go nameless at this point) sent me my very own vibrator as a "gift" to my office several weeks ago. I didn't know what to do with it (of course I know what to do with it, but just wasn't sure where to put it, okay I know where to put it, but not sure if I should take it home or what ). So I threw it in my bag thinking I would take it home or somewhere. Well I never took it out of my bag and now here I am ready to be searched, fearing it will be pulled out for all of Boston Logan International Airport to see.

As it dawns on me, I immediately say to the woman (thank God it's a woman!) security person, "Oh my God, there's a vibrator in there. My friend gave it to me, blah,blah, blah..." She looks at me and can clearly see the panic in my eyes. Thank God I had never removed said tool from the bubble wrap and the still sealed envelope it was hiding in. She takes the package back to the monitor and they run it through again. By now I am sweating as if I just finished a triathlon (see prior post on that subject). The security gang gathers 'round the monitor for a little chuckle, clearly at my expense, and the woman walks back and hands me my package, with a little smirk on her face. "Yes," she says "it is what you say it is." No shit, Sherlock.

Meanwhile I'm also struggling with how to explain this to my colleague as she waits for me to clear security. She happens to be very cool, but younger and of less rank than me in our company. But being the say it out loud girl I am, I tell her. She laughs and as I'm walking to the gate, I deposit the tool in the trash to prove I'm just not that kind of woman.

Now I gotta go buy a new one.

You Never Know Until You Tri

2008-09-12T19:31:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not I completed a triathlon this summer. The first of I hope many now that I have accomplished it. It started with a reintroduction to exercise about three years ago. I don't want to repeat my self from my "Bodyglide" post below so check that out if you're really at all curious. Suffice it to say that the mid-life crisis hit me hard. And thus I began to exercise.

At first it was just a little jogging that culminated in participating in a 5K race for a friend's sister's family's charity. (If you can follow that, congratulations!). So I kept going and two years ago my friend Stacy says, "I found an awesome race called the Muddy Buddy www.muddybuddy.com. We need to do it." Of course I have to ask, "What's a Muddy Buddy?" Turns out it's a biathlon where a team of two alternates between running and biking. The course was seven miles, but she assured me I wouldn't have to run more than a mile in between the bike segments. That was an important fact for me because I wasn't loving running at that point. Oh and we had to complete obstacle courses in between each segment. And the final detail was at the end we had to crawl together through a huge pit of mud to the finish line. I am totally serious. Hence the name. But the ultimate clincher for me was that the race was in Richmond, Virginia which meant I would be able to get away for an overnight with my pal. Sounded worth whatever physical stress might occur. So we "trained" for that race and had a great time. Turns out the race was outside in a park on trails that were loaded with rocks and bumps and HILLS, lots of hills. Oh and a creek we had to walk through carrying our bikes. But still we finished, alive, without stopping. So we got our bragging rights. We were "bi athletes."

So this year Stacy says, "Let's do a triathlon." At first I think, "No way." Then I happen to run in to a friend of a friend who happens to be the race coordinator for the SheRox all female sprint tri in Philadelphia. She tells me over 50% of the racers have never doe a tri before and that she's sure I can do it. She says the course is "easy" - a half mile swim (been swimming since I was three), a 15 mile bike ride (biking won't kill me) and a 5K (3.2 miles, which I have run before). So how hard could it be?

So I sign up and the training begins. Swimming at the YMCA, biking all over and running. Let me not forget the running part. I could go on and on about the training but actually once I got cooking it really did become a habit and not a pain in the butt. I also took a class in triathlon skills at my local Y. Turned out to be the best thing I did. Really amped my swimming skills and tuned up the other stuff. The only problem was that the class was taught by a 24 year old Ironman triathlete. So some days I had to consistently remind him I was old enough to be his mother (ouch!).

Peak training entailed doing two of the three sports six days a week. I also enrolled in an open water swim clinic over at the Jersey Shore. That helped manage expectations of swimming non-stop with no where to rest as well as swimming in a pack. I rented a wet suit at the recommendation of my instructor. Helps keep you buoyant, which is the critical thing right?

Race Day came on August 3, 2008. We had to be at the course at 6:30AM. There is lots of set up included in a tri. You are assigned a place for your bike and the rest of your stuff. Got all set up. Tried to be methodical and lay out my gear in an anticipatory way. After all I was going to have to rip off the wetsuit and then put on my socks and shoes. Decided to complete the entire event in a tri-specific top and pair of modified bike shorts. (Another brilliant idea).

I had to start in a different wave than my two friends I had trained with since I was one year older. I figured that was good to be the youngest in my age group, should give me an advantage, which isn't saying much since my age group was 43-45. Ha! As we approached the water I began to breathe deeply and tried to envision my swim. Now that made me laugh out loud at myself. I was taking this a bit too seriously. Got in the water and moved to the front of the pack, so I wouldn't get totally run over a the start. There were about 50-60 people in my wave. The horn blows and we are off. I start swimming like a mad-woman. I am nervous and aware that I need to get a rhythm or I will never make it through the entire race. By the time I got to the first turn the crowd of swimmers had thinned and I was able to get my groove. Away I went. I was incredibly excited when I started passing folks in the wave that started before me. Granted they were the older broads, but still it counted in my mind. I even passed a woman doing the backstroke like she was a synchronized swimmer. That gave me a chuckle.

Swam up to the exit for the swim in no time, peeled off the wetsuit while I ran to my bike. made it out to the bike course and away I went. biking segment went well, but I still wish I had been faster. At a triathlon they write your age on the back of your calf. I guess so if you pass out they know what they are dealing with. You can imagine what this does do a bunch of mostly vain women. We're all looking at the calfs and sizing up the competition. As I rode I kept trying to pass this 47 year old babe. I figured there ain't no way she's gonna kick my butt. Well, she did.

Rounded out the race for the run (my least favorite part). Ended up jogging along side an 18 year old who was off to college in the next week and would be in ROTC. She had trained this summer to prep for her intensive ROTC physical. So we chatted the whole way and I kept telling her to pull ahead if I was slowing her down. She hung in with me and as we approached the finish she pulled ahead. I would have too!

My cheering section was near the end and it was so exhilarating to go hear them hootin' and hollerin' for me. As I pulled through the finish line, there was my buddy, the race director, who had convinced me to do it in the first place. She yelled at the top of her lungs "Let's Go Molly! You Did it!"

The best part of the entire thing was after the race my 10 year old son says, "Mom, I am so proud of you!"

Random Wax of Kindness

2008-09-05T18:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had no choice but to take my five year old son, Sam, with me for a lip wax. It had gotten a bit out of control. Thankfully I am a blonde (well, mostly) so I can stretch the time between waxes a bit. But now the unsightly fuzz on my upper lip was more visible than it should be. You know how it gets so bad that when you look in the flip down mirror on your car visor in the morning sunlight you practically drive off the road for what you see and then drive the rest of the way desperately tugging at the fuzz with your bare hands? To no avail I might add.

The good news is that Sam has gone with his nanny often to get her brows waxed. I learned this from him not her, but whatever. So he knows what it entails. When we pull in the parking lot of the Cuticle Corner Nail Salon he asks to see the hair. So of course being the mostly full disclosure Mom I am, I oblige. He says, "Yeah, Mom you do need to get rid of that mustache. And lookit all the other hair on your chin too!" I say, "Where?" "Right here," and he then tries to pluck it with his grubby little hands. He has a point here, but I'm just about the lip today. So I flip down the mirror and assess that the rest is not so bad. In we go.

"Hi, can you fit me in for a lip wax?"

We are hurried back to the little room and the lady flips over the paper that covers the head rest on the table. I notice this thinking that it was strange that I didn't get a brand new piece of paper, but again what do you expect for $9? This is not the Red Door Salon. Sam follows me in and stands at the end of the table quietly watching.

The first side of my mouth is ripped with no real incident, save for clinched fists and a quick intake of breath. As the lady begins to spread the wax on the other side, I feel this little hand seek mine out and hold it tightly. In that instant my heart melts as my young son, who often lacks compassion, holds tightly to help me through this strange version of female torture. I gently squeeze his hand back and hold tight. As the fabric is ripped for the second time, I give a bit more drama with an "Ouch!" That way Sam will feel even better for being brave for me.

We are done and out we walk to have lunch together. I tell him how much I appreciate his holding my hand and how special it made me feel. He says, "I held your hand cuz you're nice to me an' I like you."

My New Best Friend

2008-08-30T12:39:00.000-07:00

I don’t consider myself a serious athlete. I didn’t even begin to think about regular workouts until I bordered on obese in my mid-twenties after too many nights of five-cent chicken wings and dollar beers. In fact I used to say that there were only two reasons I would ever run:

1. fear for my life, and
2. an amazing sale.

So now at the middle-age-crisis, rapidly-waning-youth period in my life I have become dedicated to working out. I like the benefits for my ever decreasing metabolism, but more so the effect on my psychological well being, which hangs in the balance every single day. So I am running, swimming, biking, taking spinning classes, and the occasional step class. Along with all this exercise comes the joy of buying a whole new workout wardrobe complete with a heart-rate monitor watch, real running shoes and a variety of jog bras and running shorts. I have a few pairs of adorable black, Nike running shorts that are not the swishy, flappy kind, but more like stretchy yoga pants material kind. They feel great, that is until I get abut 100 steps down the road. At that point my thighs start to touch every so slightly. As the run (and my sweat) progresses the “light touching” turns in to bona fide thigh rubbing. This is maddening for several reasons, the least of which is how can I be in the best shape of my life, some might even say skinny, and my things still rub????? They not only rub, but a rash develops and then I try to run like I have bowed legs to stop it all. I am now obsessed with looking at women’s thighs to see if they too touch. Most do.

I was training for my first triathlon this year and took a class with an expert athlete who turned me on to BodyGlide. It’s like a stick of deodorant that you rub between any chaffing areas and viola! The skin glides past whatever may irritate it on your body. The grossest thing athletes use it for is for nipple chaffing. Yes, that’s what I said. If you are running a marathon then apparently your nipples rub against your shirt or jog bra. I have watched the NY Marathon and seen guys running past with blood stains on their shirts right where their nipples are. OK that makes you wince just seeing it. BodyGlide will fix that right up. Same with underarms. Same with thighs. So this morning when I couldn’t find any of my favorite running shorts (the kind that are almost like bike shorts and thigh rub is a non-issue), I decided to rely on the BG and pulled those Nike shorts out. I put on a healthy layer of the stuff on both legs and away I went. Hot, sticky, humid day and four miles later no pain, no rash, no humiliating cowboy jog.

BodyGlide Run Out and Get Some Today!

If I Die Before I Wake

2008-08-28T01:55:00.000-07:00

I have recently decided that when I die I’d like to come back in my next life as a gay man. A very well adjusted, good looking, financially secure, possibly even rich, gay man. Here’s my thinking on this. It’s not rocket science. My decision centers around the fact that these guys have sex whenever and with whomever they want – no strings attached.

Here’s how my best friend Bob, who is one of “these guys,” says it goes. You are walking down the street in broad daylight. You come upon a stranger who cruises you (that’s gay lingo for check you out in an overt way). If you like what you see in that nano-second, you establish eye contact and say “Hi.” If they are serious about their cruise, which they always are, they say “Hi” back and stop to chat. The chat includes about three sentences and then “Would you like to come back to my place to hang out?” This fast, in broad daylight!! They then go back to one of their apartments, which is conveniently near by and have mind blowing, unattached sex. To top it off they often leave without the expectation of ever seeing each other again. They may exchange numbers which then go in to the pile of reliable booty call numbers to once again act on urge and get it done.

Mind blowing, unattached sex, is just not in the average female’s vernacular. We need it to mean something, to lead to something. And to top it off it is rarely mind blowing, especially on the first try. Face it, men come every time. There is proof. Women, not so much (if ever). Meaningful sex is overrated in my opinion. Really, women just need to be able to get off as easily as men and do it as much as they need to. It’s common knowledge that men need to have sex. It’s a physical thing that they just can’t help (poor things). Well guess what? Chicks need it too. We are not programmed to be so forthright about it.

There are lots of other reasons why I think it would be great to come back as a gay man, but really the sex is the main reason.

Maggie's Story

2008-08-27T18:36:00.000-07:00

Nine years ago I sat with a forty-week pregnant belly protruding beyond what I recalled it was able to do. I was clocking the minutes, preparing her room and wondering how I would handle a 17 month old and a newborn. I recall the night we had set up the second crib in our house. I actually looked in on our sleeping son in his crib still relatively new, moved on to the next bedroom where the empty borrowed crib sat and I thought, “Holy shit! I will have two babies to deal with and figure out.” I panicked a bit but, perhaps even over confidently, believed I could handle it. I could handle a lot.

I had been through a lot already in my short 33 years. The loss of my grandmother to a crippling stroke, when I was just 12 was a heartbreak for me. My grandma, Crissie, as we all called her had lived a peaceful life alone after the death of my grandfather. I spent my summers at her house on St. Martin’s Place in Cheviot, Ohio as small blue collar suburb of Cincinnati. I was her “special” granddaughter. How I knew that is beyond me, since she had 8 grandchildren, four of whom were granddaughters. But I just knew.

She was found on the second floor of her home, laying in her small study. We didn’t know how long she had been there after the stroke hit, but she had lost all use of her left side and her ability to speak coherently. We moved her in with us and I took on a roll of secondary caretaker and speech therapist at the age of 12t. I would wheel her chair up to our dining room table and I would sing a few tunes and Chrissie would blurt out the chorus randomly every now and then. For some reason she knew a song called “Oh You Beautiful Doll.” She spoke with her kind, wide eyes. She was always a lady and so very gentle. But still she was my great escape from the other “stuff” I handled and when we realized we could not care for her adequately in our own home, we moved her to a nursing home, Crestview, in our own small Ohio farm town. Mom and I would visit and I can never forget the way I tensed up when we drove in the parking lot. The smell of the halls, the sad eyes of the residents as we passed to go visit Chrissie still haunt me today. She always recognized us and often cried with joy or maybe with frustration that she was stuck in the home, stuck in her crippled body without a voice or the ability to do what she did so well, which was take care of my Mom and the rest of us.

Then in 1985 my mother was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. I was enrolled in both summer school programs that summer before my senior year at Indiana University. I got a frantic call at nine in the morning from Ted, my younger brother, crying hysterically that mom had cancer and was in the hospital. I tried to calm him, but assured him I would get in my car and immediately drive the six hours home to see what was going on. Of course I could not get anyone on the phone at home and this was well before the invention of cell phones that allowed us to reach anyone any time regardless of location. As I drove, I found myself planning her funeral. What a messed up thing. But what you must understand loud and clear is that my mother was the center of my world. If my grandmother was my most special gift and oasis, my mom was my lifeblood. It’s hard to comprehend, nearly 25 years later the depth of my connection to my mom. It has always been beyond words, although there were many times when she let me down or scared me. But in all, I would have told you then she was my very best friend. So when I got to the hospital after six hours of driving and crying, to find her bed empty, you can imagine how I just about collapsed. Thankfully she had been sent home. When I got home, she was there. She had a huge circle drawn on her chest with a Sharpie. She said it was the size of the tumor. It was her entire chest encircling both breasts and stretching up to the nape of her neck. But she was alive and there to hold me. That was a year of hell and pain and a lot of six hour drives back and forth from school. Each night I wished on a star, “Star light, star bright, fist star I see tonight wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight. Please let mom live until I graduate.” Every single night the very same wish. She died one month after I graduated and had moved home.

So there's a lot of “stuff” I have lived through and my mom and grandmother are just scratching the surface. So I figured I had already paid my dues of sorts. God had tapped me at an early age and that meant I was done getting the short shrift. Well it doesn’t work like that I came to find out.

On March 25, 1999 God or fate or bad luck called me to the front of the line again. I gave birth to my daughter, Margaret Elisabeth on that day. She is my second child, her brother Jake arrived 17 short months before she did. See I always, always knew I wanted to be a mom and that I wanted a daughter to carry on the connection I had shared with my mom and her mom, not to mention my only sister. Maggie was to be my chance to do the mom thing right by my daughter. The rebirth of the relationships I so deeply missed.

Yet something wasn’t right with this baby. I knew it in my core that first night I was alone with her in the hospital. Kevin had left to take Jake home and I looked forward to just us girls getting to know each other. There was a vacancy in her eyes, a lack of connection, an inability to sustain a suck while breastfeeding. Right now, this very minute I can recall that moment, every painful second of foreshadowing and loss and grief. Although clearly at that point I had no idea what lay ahead for us.

Maggie was diagnosed with Mitochondrial Disease at about 14 months old. Her story up until that point is another chapter that I will cover at another time. Now she is nine years old, nine years alive. She is wheelchair bound with little ability to hold her own head up for any meaningful amount of time, cannot speak, cannot hold things in her hands, cannot sit up alone, cannot eat with out the use of a feeding tube that is inserted directly into her intestine cannot speak. Essentially she’s about the equivalent of a newborn.

I am usually asked so many questions about her and I tend to say all that she can’t do. That’s because the things she can do are intangible and not easily recognized by those who are afraid of her and her condition, or even me at times. The things she can do are so subtle that sometimes you don’t realize what she’s done until much later. What she’s done or how she’s affected your perspective. How she’s opened you up, how she’s humbled you, how she’s allowed you to be incredibly aware of tiny, every day things. I can’t articulate that to people. It’s just how I live in a post Maggie world. I try to set examples and use her to guide me. Some days I do pretty good and others I fail. I try to live up to the standard that her survival demands.

So this relationship with my daughter is not what I dreamed of, not what I believe I deserve, quite frankly. But it must be something I need. I know there is meaning in it, meaning that is beyond my comprehension, beyond my pain and even beyond this world as we know it.

My beautiful, silent daughter, Maggie.

A Doll for Maggie. A Doll for Mom.

2008-08-27T17:45:00.000-07:00

March 14, 2008

I broke one of my cardinal rules today. I didn’t plan on it, but I actually just gave in to it. I bought Maggie a Madame Alexander collectible doll for her upcoming 9Th birthday. The last time I bought her a Madame Alexander doll was for Christmas in 1999. Back then I still held hope that she would some day love her dollies and get excited about collecting them, like I did as a little girl.

I had a pretty impressive doll collection whose foundation was set with one Madame Alexander (MA bride doll I received when I was about 7 or 8. That original doll actually burned up when our house in Baton Rouge caught fire. It was quickly replaced by another, this time a ballerina in a beautiful light blue tulle tutu with chestnut hair, deep blue eyes and tiny pink satin slippers. My mother focused on dolls from other countries and, in addition to my domestic MA dolls, she always brought me one from her travels. I recall the Beefeater from London, the old lady from Spain and my favorite the blonde with braids and wooden shoes from Holland (of course). I had a replica of Liza post Dr. Higgins from My Fair Lady. That too came from London, some others from Germany and Mexico. However, I took the greatest pride in my Madame Alexander collection, the ballerina, the Spanish flamenco dancer, the others whose dress escapes me but whose signature cherubic cheeks and sparkling eyes will never leave my memory.

It was only natural that I’d want my daughter to share the same love of collecting dolls and I had told myself I would help her preserve them so her daughter could enjoy them some day.

1999 was Maggie’s first Christmas. She was nine months old and her health had stabilized. In honor of her stability I bought her a MA baby doll. I remember Jake giving it to her on Christmas morning and us propping it next to her since she couldn’t hold anything in her hands, much less truly notice or attend to it. She still has that doll and many others who sit completely dressed and unloved in her room. Many have dust gathering in their hair or on their clothes. But I never again bought another MA doll. I have looked at them from time to time with longing and thought, “Well I should just by her one.” But then what for? So today I walked past a shelf in a store that was filled with the familiar light blue boxes with the tiny rosettes. I glanced and kept on walking, certain if I lingered the longing and loss would return. Then I found myself passing them again and I just stopped and began to look through each box, as there were so many different ones. Carefully removing the lid and moving the pink tissue away to reveal the same face I had grown to love over forty years ago. I had to look at each and every box, and somewhere during this I decided I was going to buy one for Maggie for her birthday. I pulled a few, but wanted to find one with red hair like Maggie’s and be representative of something special. I finally settled on one called “Russian Ballerina.” She has beautiful red hair, a must since Maggie is essentially a red head, and bright blue eyes and she will fit perfectly on Maggie’s shelf and collect dust. But today I am okay with that.

Starting Today

2008-08-27T16:48:00.000-07:00

So this blog thing is new to me, but I've got so much material and no where to go with it. Folks say the stories of my crazy life might make sense to others, make them laugh, inspire them, appall them, whatever. I'm known for saying the stuff out loud that everyone else thinks but is afraid to even broach.

Take for example yesterday, I'm in a meeting with a male colleague of mine and we are discussing the brand Levitra, you know the drug for erectile dysfunction? So I say to him, "Well I get where that name came from. Levitate, you know rise up? That makes perfect sense to me." He says "Are you kidding? I never thought of it that way. It always amazes me, your thought process. Actually I think it is the active ingredient in the drug." I believe I am totally right. After all, I am in advertising and they say the brand name is the single most important decision you can make. So of course I go to the NET to seek my truth. AHA! The active ingredient in Levitra is something called Vardenafil HCl. This is all the proof I need. Wait 'til I tell my buddy at work!