"Losing" Jack

Yesterday was an ordinary Sunday. Housework, church, yardwork etc.  The boys had been in and out of the house all day.  We have a fenced in backyard that is securely locked to keep them from getting out.  The day was winding down and I needed to get dinner ready (pizza) but it is so much easier to do without a kitchen full of boys. So I told the boys they could watch Toy Story 3 ( a new dvd) in the basement while I prepared dinner.   All was quiet and calm. Don and I had sat down on the couch to talk and wait for the pizza to be ready. It was almost time so I called down to the boys to come upstairs and wash their hands for dinner.  I heard the thumping of their feet climbing the stairs but noticed that only the 2 older boys came up.   I called down to Jack, "Jack, come upstairs!" He is our 3 year old and is usually the first one at the table.

No answer.  I called again, it was then that Parker said that Jack wasn't with them  and he had thought he had come upstairs a "long time ago".  As a parent, I was slightly worried, but went downstairs to check, sure enough, he wasn't there. I called to Don who was already starting to panic and repeat, " this is not good, this is not good" as he went upstairs to find him. He wasn't upstairs either. And with that, our hell began.  I cannot explain what it felt like other than,  my heart  felt like it had sank into my stomach. Surely he must be in the backyard?  He wasn't there either. It was then that Don and I noticed the front door was open.  We live in a sidewalk lined, relatively safe neighborhood, but unless that neighborhood is in a snow globe, anyone can roam through it. We both took off out of the house. Screaming Jack's name over and over. I ran to the neighbors to see if they had seen Jack. I just wanted someone, anyone to say they had seen him go this way or that way, but nobody could give me that answer.  I ran back home where Fin was standing there watching the baby. Tears are streaming down my face as I called 911.  Giving a description of my son has never been so difficult.  They responded quickly and sent 2 police cars over.  I must have been quite hysterical because by this time our streets were lined with people, all searching for Jack.  I sat on our front steps and heard far off voices screaming Jack? Jack?  I thought at one point that this could not be happening to me.  I couldn't bear to go inside without him. It was getting dark.  Every car that passed I ran in front of to ask if they had seen my little boy. I was not what you would call, calm and collected, but even my neighbors without children were concerned and the panic amongst us was palpable. I have never been in a situation like this before, and until yesterday I didn't know how I would react.  It is in these moments that you discover how your body and brain work.  I told myself to calm down, I spoke ( yelled) at God to not let this happen...and I started wishing. Wishing that  I had a power to stop everything and everyone. I wished that kids had some kind of gps inside of them, so I could know their location at all times. I wished it was just a dream. When the police arrived they asked permission to search my house. I told them to just find him! When they emerged, they hadn't found him. They asked me to come inside and find a picture of Jack. I grabbed every picture of him that I had on the refrigerator, and that is when reality set in, was this going to be the picture on the news? I threw up in the kitchen sink.
I felt emotionally exposed. The fears that had been hidden in the depths of my body had all risen to the surface.  I try and maintain a confident and competent demeanor and in this moment it was me..just me raw.
I didn't care who are what was there, I just wanted Jack to be home. I have four boys, not three and the table is set, and we will not be eating until Jack is in his seat.  I listened as the officers called in the report, white male, 3 years old, Navy shirt that reads Big Bro, jeans with rips in the knees, and white socks... My baby was such a trooper, thankfully he had been fed previous to the chaos and he was just kicking away in his bouncy seat, watching police men, me, everyone run back and forth. My older son was circling the block and Fin was more concerned with my tears then his brother. At one point he asked to continue watching the movie, and I snapped. What I didn't take into consideration, is that in his 6 year old mind, the worst thing that could happen was he was lost. In my 33 year old mind the worst thing that could happen is a laundry list of images and fears of the unspeakable.   The police sat Fin down and questioned him about the last time he saw Jack. My parents arrived. My dad was taking care of the search and my mom was taking care of me.
As they began to leave, one of the officers stopped. He looked at me and said,  "I just have a feeling he is in the house, can we search again?" Yes I said, but felt like I wanted them out finding the person who had taken him.  I know my son, and I know that he is not a mischievous three year old. If he did go outside, he knows his limits ( we go over them constantly) and I knew that if he had been gone for
 (by now it was 45 min.) someone had him. I allowed them back inside and I heard one of the officers yell "we found him!" I ran downstairs to see Jack, groggy and sweaty, sleeping under the cushions in the couch. The couch that 6 adults and 2 kids had already searched.
I didn't run to his side with glee.  As much relief that I felt, I also felt that he had no idea what was going on and to see me crying would have freaked him out  and even more, having 4 enormous armed men in uniform staring at him.
The word quickly spread that we had found him, at this point the only one who didn't know was Don.  A neighbor had found him. He had been sprinting, screaming and searching for the past 45 minutes. I have always viewed Don as an emotional rock, today was the first time I saw him shattered.  He returned, hoarse, sweaty and with bloodshot eyes.
A cruel evening in terms of discovering your inept ability to deal with such an emotion.
The what-ifs have not stopped. Questioning my parenting has not stopped.  What it did, was it brought me down a notch. I'm humbled, grateful and truly blessed to have neighbors who really care.
The longest hour of my life, but we had the best possible outcome and I know that we are lucky.
Last night I slept in Jack's bed, I just wanted to be sure that when I did wake up in the middle of the night I didn't need to run upstairs, I could just reach over and feel his face.

A dog tribute

We had a child out of wedlock. He is our bastard child and he was born to a real bitch. His name is Graham and he came to us from a breeder in Northern California.  Its a big step for a couple to get a dog together. I wish more people took it as seriously as we did. We did all the things that expecting parents do. We read the dog books, we researched breeds, and I even went to the bookstore and searched through baby name books to find just the perfect name. Finally on a warm day at LAX our baby arrived.

I choose the name Graham because it was a Scottish surname that meant homestead. Unlike a baby, you can choose the sex and the breed. I choose him because a. I love chocolate and b. he is cute. Little did I know he would be the foreshadowing of things to come.  

Having a puppy teaches you a lot about your relationship. I had gotten a puppy with a previous boyfriend. Ironically it was also a chocolate lab, but when we realized that not only were we completely irresponsible, poor and on shaky relationship ground, having a puppy did not fix things. In fact it will test things.  Poor Java Bean ended up living with his parents after our breakup. 

I remember the first night I had with Graham. I settled him into his cozy new crate, gave him a toy, put the lights out and was ready to go to sleep.  That is when the crying started... and it didn't stop.  Didn't he understand that I had class the next day?  By 3 a.m. I seriously considered leaving him on a leash tied to the stop sign  knowing that someone would pick him up and give him a new home. I have felt so guilty about that ever since.  Things did get better, but who knew how expensive this was going to be? Shots? Food? Removal of his balls?  Potty training was a shitty experience all in itself.  Did I mention that dogs were not allowed in my apartment?  So if  I were to leave and have him cry, I would get evicted.  I specifically remember visiting my neighbor upstairs to explain that we had a dog and if he heard crying that is what it was, and to please not tell on me.  He happened to be in a wheelchair, and an insomniac and there were times that  I think he fell out of his chair and flopped around like a fish, because the noise was as loud as a construction site.  He understood this, and said mums the word. Did I mention that he wasn't wearing pants when he opened the door? That is an entirely different post all together.

When I wanted to go out one night, I realized that this chocolate ball and chain would not let me. I called a dog sitter. To my dismay, they were not like a baby dog sitter,  they didn't come over for an hour or two and babysit so you could go out, they took care of your dog while you were AWAY.  Bummer, and I'm sure the guy I spoke with thought I was a real lunatic. 

So Graham and I became very close very fast. There were tears and laughter. I'm a habitual dog dresser upper. Graham has worn veils, shirts, hats, shoes, antlers...you name it and he has not only worn it, but it has been documented with photos. 

When my boyfriend proposed and we made plans for our honeymoon, I could not let Graham be alone. So my maid of honor and I drove 2000+ miles to Indiana. Once we were married my husband and I  drove from Indiana to California, and stayed at dog friendly hotels.  Once we got to LA we dropped him off at an approved cage free doggy care center ( $$$)  and went to Sonoma for a honeymoon without the baby :) I wonder if the people at our wedding knew there monetary gifts would be going to our dog? 

Lets fast forward 10 years.  Graham has been around for each and every son we have had. In fact I think he knew I was pregnant before I did.  He would become a little bit more protective of me while I was prego.  When I had a miscarriage and couldn't bear to get out of bed, he stayed, didn't even get up to eat. 

With each son he graciously welcomed them with a gentle, non jealous demeanor, knowing very well that he was now not even in the backseat, he was in the trunk when it came to family hierarchy. When we brought our 4th son home, I swear he looked at me with a look that said "seriously?" 

Make no mistake, Graham is a strange dog, he is not your typical lab. He isn't overly friendly to strangers, he has an uncanny judge of character. He also has a french accent when he talks.. He seems to have an iron stomach because he has eaten at times, an entire loaf of french bread, numerous diapers 

(the brown variety) an entire pizza cooling on the oven, a box of chocolate, friendship bread, cheese, and whatever the boys don't want to eat for dinner.

But lately I have noticed that Graham is slowing down a bit. He is 77 in dog years and will turn 84 in February. I'm realistic in knowing the life span of a lab. We are lucky right now to have him at 11.

He is still loyal and I cannot go into the bathroom without him following me. But I know our time is limited. 

Graham taught me how to be a mom.  He taught us how to be a couple, and he showed me what true unconditional love is. So with this post I honor my canine son Graham and hope to be able to celebrate his life now and make his silver years his very best.  He has been our silent anchor always greeting us at the door with a wag. The least we can do for him is let him do his job a little longer.

Talent Co-op anyone?

I blame my parents. When I was a kid if I showed the slightest interest in anything, they were on it. I was taking lessons, or on a team in a matter of weeks. It was great. It allowed me to excel in what I was good at (acting/soccer) and fail at what I wasn't (gymnastics).It was really not a good fit for me. First of all I get terrible motion sickness and secondly I wasn't limber. In fact,  I was recently told by a physician that I have the flexibility of an 80 year old woman, and it was the worst he had ever seen in anyone in their 30's even 40's. But I at least got to try to do the splits and participate with other gumby little girls. I didn't feel poorly about that  because I knew I was good at other things.
I want the same for my boys. But I had no idea how expense exploring my youngsters interests could be! So far, I have taken our two older ones to tennis lessons, soccer, t-ball, pottery and now tap dance lessons.  Yes I know, tap dance lessons?  Both Don and I have always admired a good tap dancer, it combines just the right amount of athleticism and grace. It also is a fantastic thing, in my opinion, to have in your talent repertoire. I'm the type a girl that finds a guy who can dance, and (doesn't do the sidestep in the edge of a dance floor) very attractive. Even if a guy gets out there and just has a good time is already 3x more attractive than a guy who is better looking and standing there with his hands in his pockets.
So today we embarked on this tap endeavor.  We arrived and I had quickly forgotten how the smell of lycra can just make my muscles ache.  The woman was all business too.  Having me sign my boys tapping feet away for the next 7 months!  She called it a "semester". Wait a second...I don't remember this when I was a kid.  She then whisked the boys off to the "shop" and had them fitted for tap shoes.  All the time the boys are doing what they think are tap moves, which looks a bit more like a riverdance combo with the Russian guy dance.
Slowly I felt my purse being tugged and tugged again.
$ shoes
$$ registration fee
$$$ tuition up front
Before I knew it, I had spent a mortgage payment on something that I don't even know if the boys will like. They just said they thought it would be fun...well, wait, maybe I asked them if they wanted to learn, I'm so baffled and I just don't know anymore. And I just realized that this will certainly cut in to their baseball season and I can be pretty sure that their dad isn't going to have them miss a couple games for a tap recital...just a hunch.
The rest of the students arrive and it takes all of 2 seconds for them to both realize that there is not a boy in sight..except for a little girls brother, and I sensed a bit of hesitation.  But I explained that this was really a cool thing for them to know, and that I was proud of them. Then they are herded away to a secret room that I cannot observe except on observation days.
Do I think that in the next 20 years they will be starring on Broadway as Billy Elliott?  No.
But maybe? Would my brother be a Grammy award winning opera singer if my mom hadn't put him in church choir when he was 9? Maybe but doubtful.
Would I be an Oscar award winning actress if my mom hadn't enrolled me in the local Shakespeare camp? Wait a second... but I'm still a more well rounded person who can do a killer Lady MacBeth impersonation because of that experience. And if I were to be frank, there were a cupple of little pork chops taking the same class, who clearly don't have the bone structure for dance. Softball?  Maybe.
But why should it cost an arm and a leg to let the kids experience something just to see if they like it?
I think it would be great if parents got together and figured out what each of us is great at. Not good, not expert level, but great enough to show newbie kids the gist.
For example, I'm a pretty good ice skater... I would be more than happy to take a few kids on Saturday mornings to the ice rink and teach them the basics.  I know someone must know how to play the piano, cello, violin, etc. well enough to introduce it to a group of kids without me purchasing the instrument and the lessons only to discover that my son is not the next Yo Yo Ma.
Is it really any wonder why the arts are dying a slow death amongst our youth?  If I had to choose between feeding my kids belly or talent, I would, of course, choose belly.
So finally after a long 30 min. which if I calculate the cost per minute I would probably fall off my chair, the boys emerged from the dance studio.
Were they filled with inspiration and glee? Hardly. Parker said, that was hard. Finegan said, that was too fast and the girls were better than us.
This road to SYTYCD may be a long one, but someday, when they are giving their bows on stage they will look at me and mouth "thank you mom". and it will be all worth it.

You Grew in a Nut Mommy.

I wish that I had a camera following me just for one morning.  I would then put it in a parallel frame with my boss and  in accurate time follow our morning events all the way up to the point when I walked into work and heard him say..."your late".

Of course this is all hypothetical because I have no clue what he does in the morning, but let me give you my idea of what might be happening.


5 a.m. While he is sleeping, my alarm is going off and Tony
Horton is waiting for me in the basement to workout so that I
can wear my professional work clothes and not "look like a slob"
5:30 a.m. my workout is derailed when Jack needs grape juice
and is naked because he went potty.
5:45 Boss is still sleeping...
5:45 a.m.  I have lost all motivation and have started to make coffee.
6:00 He is probably taking a beautifully hot shower with dual shower heads while his wife makes him Italian espresso.
6:00 a.m. I have decided that I will not be taking a shower this morning. We are already running behind and my husband will be in the shower for 20 min. which will not give me enough alone time.
6:15 a.m. I have already turned on the light in the boys room to tell them that if they were not up in 10 minutes that they will miss the hoe down. Yes, there is a hoe down at school, and missing it would mean that I would have to keep them home from school, but they didn't notice my empty threat.
6:30 a.m. I pour myself some granola and pour a table spoon of milk in it, to my dismay there is no more milk in the house. As I eat dry granola I try and figure out what I'm going  to feed the boys that does not involve milk.
6:30 a.m. Mr. Boss is probably having stimulating conversation over a feta cheese omelet and reading the New York Times.
6:45 Pop Tarts have been served.
6:50 a.m. Husband changes Oscar and puts him in a ridiculously ugly outfit with stripped pants, turtle socks and a Halloween shirt.
6:51 Our dog ate Jack's Pop Tart
6:52 Parker realizes he didn't do his math homework
6:53 Finegan has dropped his toothbrush on the bathroom floor and immediately put it in his mouth.
7:00 Phone call, the nanny may be sick and may need to go to the doctor....
7:03 The (older) boys are out the door, I pray the school boss arrives this time.
7:05 My boss is throwing his scarf around his neck and leisurely getting in his (clean) car to drive to work.
7:05 I realize that I'm not dressed.
7:10 Baby Einstein is our feature presentation and I have a chance to put clothes on.
7:15 A loud crash. Jack has dumped all of his dvd on the floor. All 400 of them.
7:17 I find that my jeans are not fitting and I hate myself for not working out.
7: something I poor myself a hot cup of coffee.
7:30 Oscar is hungry and I need to give him a bottle.
7:30 My boss is waving to the guard and parking in his designated spot and taking a brisk 2 minute walk into the door.
7:45 I finished feeding Oscar and put him in his car seat to get ready to leave.
7:50 I reprimand Jack for rocking Oscar too violently in his car seat.
7:55 I dump the coffee I poured because it is cold and I pour myself another one. I put a chair in front of the cupboard because our 11 year old lab has regressed into a 1 year old puppy and eats our food.  I grab the keys, throw a coat on Jack and pick up the car seat.
8:00 Oscar explodes. Earlier in the week, he was diagnosed with an ear infection and is on antibiotics, apparently his digestive system just realized this and he has pooped... and I mean POOPED.
8:05 I have removed every article of mismatched clothing from the baby and threw them in the tub to be cleaned later. I put him back in jammies, and hope nobody notices.
8:07 I'm out the door and Jack is carrying a microwave popcorn bag and I don't care.
8:15 Jack is dumbfounded that he can't have popcorn in the car because last time I checked we don't have a microwave in the front seat. He is so mad at me. He tells me I grew in a nut.
This is equivalent to an adult abomination of character. Just the other day his brothers told him that he didn't grow in my tummy and that he grew in a nut and it hurt his feelings, so his main intention with this nut comment were to hurt mine.
8:17 I reach for my coffee and realize its still on the counter.
8:17 My boss is wondering where I am.
8:22 I drop the 2 little ones off with the nanny, hoping she feels better, and peel Jack from my leg. Apparently he has changed his mind about his displeasure with me.
8:30 I'm at a stop light and take a glance at myself in the mirror...I only lined one eye.
8:35 I'm stuck behind a girl dropping her boyfriend off in front of a building and they are giving an extra long kiss good by. I want to scream "get a room" but decide my mini-van screams that all on its own.
8:40 I keep swiping my card to get into the lot at work and it won't beep. I then realize that the gate is already open...( remember I have not had any coffee yet) and what is really bad, I did the same thing yesterday.
8:45 I cough up a big phlegm ball and think that nobody can see me spit it in the grass, and a person I know is standing there witnessing me do this. I hope he doesn't recognize me but he waves.
8:55 I'm still walking to my office. Unlike my boss, I have to park 10-15 min. away.
8:57 I take a tiny detour to Starbucks.
9:05 While waiting for my coffee I start to feel guilty about my testiness with Jack when leaving, and wonder if there was anyway I could have popped the popcorn for him in the car.
9:07 I arrive and my boss says "your late"

I don't even attempt to explain myself. There really isn't a set time I'm even suppose to be in, but I just smile and turn on my working-girl charm.  Kids? What kids?  I had such a crazy night last night, I must  have just slept threw my alarm.  Under my breath I said to him........
"you grew in a nut"

Halloween..a word please.

Halloween has evolved. Especially since I was a kid.  I started planning my costume on November 1 and didn't give it a second thought until a week or two prior to Halloween, which sent my mom into a costume frenzy because she would make them for us.  She gave up this tradition when I insisted on being my dog, who was a mutt, one year, and I ended up looking like an Ewok. Now costumes are determined by the popular movie that year, or if you are a college girl.
Everyone knows that any girl between the ages of 18-27 will use Halloween as an excuse to look as slutty as possible. Hey, I'm just as guilty. From 1996-1998 I was a catholic school girl. What is ironic, is that I actually was a catholic school girl.  Prior to the age of 18 there is a Halloween dry spell. A too cool for school attitude. In 6th grade its still kind of cool to dress up. In 7th and 8th grade every girl in my class, including me, was a "punk". Or at least our definition of a punk. Pink spiked hair, mismatched neon clothes. Not the punks you would see walking the streets of London, but more the kind you would see in a Midwest food court.
Then the high school age when you really want the candy, and want to dress up, but are afraid you will look stupid so you don't. But the boys usually will wear street clothes and a mask and go out anyway.
Once you have kids, all Halloween efforts are dedicated to them. Unless you are in our family where Halloween is a big deal for all of us, well, ok, most of us, well except me. I'm just along for the ride.
Just tonight I took my two older sons to something called Zoo boo. It sounded like a good idea at the time. Kids dress up, go to the zoo, and different vendors hand out candy. I thought it would be fun to spook the boys a bit and told them we were going to someplace special to celebrate the Holiday.  I love to mess with them, and as their mom, I reserve all rights to do so. Of course I had to stop at Starbucks first. I knew I was going to need some liquid pick me up, if I was going to be wondering a round a zoo at dusk.  When we pulled up to the drive-thru, I said "Surprise! Isn't this great?" By now they know when I'm kidding, and they still think its kind of funny, but not funny enough to laugh... not even a courtesy laugh. We didn't have any Halloween Cd's in the car, and the only one I could find was Grateful Dead; the name is scary, and once I told them the name of the band they agreed it was suitable for Halloween. So as we listened to Sugar Magnolia and were in route to the Zoo Boo.
Once there, we made our way to the back of a line of at least 300 people. As we were walking I discovered an alarming trend. Parents costumes. It scared me...really. Here is why.
The first one was a father and his son in Orange Jail jumpers ( that looked a little too authentic), the mom was in some kind of blue shirt. I can only imagine she was suppose to be a correction officer.  The next was a mom as Alice and her daughter was the card. That would have been cute if she would have chosen a less slutty version of Alice. Which begs the question, when did Halloween become about sex? The last thing I want to think of referring to sex are zombies..or vice versa.
I found it interesting that some moms had gone out of their way to dress their daughters up.  I know, I don't have girls, but the way these girls were dressed was almost as if they were auditioning for the next kid beauty pageant show on TLC. Makeup that only a salesgirl at the Mac counter should be wearing. I think it is a sad attempt to do just that. The same as if a man continually dresses as a woman for Halloween. He has the desire to dress in drag. Nothing wrong with that at all, but don't use Halloween as your cover.
If you are an adult and choose to dress up, I  think costume choice does say something about your inner-most desires.  This year I'm going as Rachel from Glee, complete with a slushy-stained shirt. Don is a vampire from True Blood. I'm not sure I can validate my point with that, and I'm not going to try.
The zoo boo was not something I would do again. I found myself more irritated than anything. The biggest disappointment was that the majority of the zoo residents were not there. No tigers, lions, or monkeys, but we did get to see a wild turkey, a buffalo, and a llama. Although, the boys did have fun. They are my little actors in full character. Fin, as a skeleton ( a baggy one, but he insisted), would sneak up behind kids and tap them on the shoulder to scare them by just standing there, no boo, just a stare. Parker (a star wars character, Jengo something,) and in a costume too small ( but he insisted) lurked around as if he was on a mission. A mission for candy; all I had to do was go up to the vendors and listen long enough to get candy for them... I took one for the team; as a mom, I have accepted that is one thing I must just do. But if anyone would like a free tanning package at the local tanning salon, let me know...now that IS scary.

What is the truth anyway?

I ran into a girl who went to my grade school when I was in Starbucks today. I was alone and decided to forgo the drive-thru and actually make personal contact with the baristas whose voices I know so well.
As I walked up to the counter, I realized I had cut in front of a girl who was on her BlackBerry.  As I turned to apologize, I realized that I knew her. The last time we had seen each other was at a party. Both of us knew we were pregnant, but neither one of us had told anyone yet. I should have known when she passed on the wine being poured around also.  She ended up having a girl, and I had a boy. I asked how her daughter was doing. She said that she is doing great and sleeping through the night, in their bed. I mentioned that Oscar still gets up at night at least once, hence the need for espresso, and that is when the mommy truth gets a little awkward. I said, well, we don't allow our boys to sleep with us.  I know there are some firm co-sleeping believers out there, but I'm not one of them. First of all, I cannot sleep when there is a baby next to me... I wish I could, but I can't. I'm afraid that I will roll over on them, that somehow they will scoot to the end of the bed without me knowing and fall off and land on their head. Or they will wrap themselves in a sheet noose and strangle and hang themselves, and if that doesn't happen, maybe they will be elbowed in the temple by my husband, which would cause instant death. I'm sure there are at least a dozen arguments supporting each side.  I didn't explain all of that (obviously), but she then asked if I get up and nurse him when he wakes up... Now I wasn't in the debate club in high school, but I'm guessing that was her way of throwing a little opposition attack my way.  I'm not nursing anymore. I stopped when he was 4 months old.  Call me selfish, but I wanted my body back.  It was then that there was the mommy- superior look in her eye. Getting into her car, I can only imagine that she had sympathy for my baby who was being deprived of my boob.  I know she was thinking this because I had sympathy for her baby who might get rolled over in the middle of the night in her parents' bed.
So who is right?  I consider myself a relatively smart woman; if not smart, I'm certainly... healthy, and I wasn't breast-fed. In fact, I was just the opposite. Formula 33 years ago didn't have DHA; I bet it was just dried milk with a formula label. And after that, my mom gave me Tang. Yes, Tang. The orange-juice-like beverage that astronauts drank in space.  And I turned out fine. I know for a fact that my mom didn't "wear me", and last time I checked I don't have separation issues...except when Don leaves me, just kidding.
So who or what resource can I believe? I have come to have a love/hate relationship with marketing companies.
I'm the first to want to try a new product that comes out, if it promises to give me.

a. perfect skin
b. a perfect body
c. a perfect life.

So that kind of narrows it down to about every single thing that my target demographic sees. It was recently pointed out to me that October, being breast cancer awareness month, was created by a marketing genius! Now everything that has a pink ribbon on it, can be viewed as helping to find a cure, but how is a can of soda or candy or chips with a pink ribbon helping anyone? Sure, a portion of the proceeds goes to research, but what portion? And the rest of the item you just bought could go to the cause of obesity, or other health complications.
Maybe I'm a little bitter about the cancer thing. I have been in meetings when cancer survivors stand up and boast that they are cancer-free. That is boast-worthy, don't get me wrong...early detection is to thank for that, not necessarily will to live.   My grandmother had a will to live stronger than most, and she is NOT here to talk about how she "beat" cancer, because cancer beat her.
So who can we trust when it comes to doing the right thing?  I nursed all three of my first sons for the first 6 months of their lives...all of my boys are not sick often, they are bright, and they are developing normally.  But even 6 months ago, when I had Oscar, I felt the pressure to nurse him exclusively, or he was going to be dumb and sick.  Perhaps it's just a white lie on the industry's part.  We all lie, right? I bet nobody knows my real height. Yesterday I was 5'9, and today I'm 5'5 1/2. A week ago I was blond, today I'm brunette.

Even the smartest people can be subject to marketing fraud.  Just look at the billion-dollar diet industry.  It still baffles me that people still believe that they can lose weight permanently by drinking a shake for breakfast, a shake for lunch, and a sensible dinner. You would think after the 3rd time trying, they would get it. But can you blame them? You don't need to; they already blame themselves because that is what the diet industry wants: repeat customers.
Enough of my ranting... I think I need another Starbucks; after all, it is the best coffee out there, and that is why I need it, even if it is $4 a cup and the March 2007 Consumer report found that McDonald's coffee has the best and even cheaper coffee.....

Tailgating, the Irish way.

Since moving close to Notre Dame, it has been an annual Fall event to walk to campus and tailgate. It is quite a big deal around here; people get their coolers and tents set up at least 8 hours before the game even starts and continue to tailgate well into the evening, even after the football team has played and is gone and probably at home in their pj's.
We moved here in 2001; that makes one year of tailgating baby- free...and I get pretty nostalgic about it.  If I remember correctly, it was a smorgasbord of alcohol, bad food that you LOVE, and friendship. The following year I was pregnant, and while the food really hit the spot,  my husband's drinking did not settle well, at least not with me. The following year we had our first son; I carried him in a Bjorn and dodged drunk people's attempts to touch him. It almost sent me into a new mommy panic attack, but I made it. The very next football season we had doubled. Now we had a Bjorn and a stroller.
I noticed the fun of wondering around the festival of beer, burgers, cookies and hummus became a bit less enjoyable and I found myself saying things (referring to college students) like " these kids need to be careful, there are children here" or " I wonder what her mother would think if she saw her doing that keg stand"  The following year we did not have an additional child and we even got a babysitter so we could relive the good ol' tailgating days.  This resulted in my husband enjoying himself a little too much and me pouring a cup of ice-cold water on his head...long story which you can imagine, did not have a happy ending.
The next year I was pregnant (again), and I was so overwhelmed with the debauchery of people having fun that I cried and waddled home. So when I told my husband I would like to go tailgating again this year, he looked at me with a bit of (understandable) concern.  To our credit, we are a bit more realistic and know we cannot spend 2 hours in a parking lot no matter how much we (he) would like to.   We had a specific place to go with people I trust and are friends with, or as I like to think, a child support staff.
I had Oscar in the bjorn and the mile walk felt a bit like a 10k with a 21 lb. baby attached to me.  The middle 2 were in the wagon, and the oldest was happily trotting alongside. What I noticed is that people seemed to stare at us.  Maybe it was the fact that we had so many boys, or maybe it was that they all look like slightly modified variations of each other and Don.
*A note about tailgating, or football in general. Something primal inside me happens and I crave anything with salt and fat. Nachos, cheese, potato chips, etc.
Also, with children you can't have a long conversation with anyone because your eyes and mind are watching to see which one of your kids might try and escape your eye shot.
We finally arrive, and the boys were impressed with the spread. They each got a plate and filled it with thier choice of food, Jacks plate had less of a variety, as it was just filled with candy corn. Finegan decided to diversify, but sticking to one color palet of brown, brownies, cookies and coke. Parker went out on a limb and added a carrot to his plate, but I believe it was just for show because he never ate it.
It felt like we had finally gotten a handle on it. The boys were playing football with their daddy, the weather was perfect, and for a moment it felt like the Gipper himself was guiding us from the heavens to have a perfect family tailgate. That lasted, in its entirety, about 10 min. It was then that Fin started dodging bees, Jack started sneaking around like the Pink Panther, and Parker threw a football that hit me right in the head.
I gave Don the nod, and we both knew that our time in the perfect zone had come to an end.  As we were packing up to leave ( the boys needed food to go in case they got hungry on the 10 min. walk home) a college girl approached me.  I will assume she was slightly intoxicated, but she asked me if all these boys were mine..Yes, I said, wondering which one asked her for something; they have a habit of asking strangers for candy, they figured if they beat a stranger to the candy question, than they can accept the candy if provided.  She then said, Wow, how? Did she want the technical answer or the non-technical? What? I said, "Well, you are so young; how did you have them so fast? It was now indeed crystal clear she was intoxicated, but I told her I was, in fact, 33 years old.  I think I even said it with that much cheese.
She then told me that she thought I was only 25. I would have kissed her right there, but given the fact that
1. she was drunk and
2. I had a hat and sunglasses on that made 3/4 of my face invisible
I can understand why she thought that.  Because my husband was actually attending the football game, I drew the lucky straw to take all of them home.  There is not a workout in the world that could prepare one for pulling 70 pounds in a wagon while 20 + pounds are attached to the front of you.  Parker assumed the patriarchal role and made sure to clear out any beer cans/bottles that got in our way on our sidewalk-lined way home, except when we were encountered by any dog, but especially one in clothing, in which all things stop and he has to pet them.
Overall, it gave us the boost we needed to attempt this again next year...but for now we will bask in our parental glory.

A list of waiting room Mommies

Today I had the pleasure of taking 3 hours off of work and taking Oscar and his sidekick Jack to his six month checkup.  In the 7 years that I have been a mother, I can estimate, based on the first year having at least 6 appointments plus yearly checkups and various illnesses, or things being shoved up noses, that I have been to this office at least 40 times, and that does not include nurse visits.  That is more than I have been to my doctor in my life! I will never understand mothers with Munchausen syndrome; I can think of quite a few other places I would rather be and with different company.
Because of this, I have become quite familiar with the staff and the clientele.
So I came prepared with a stash of candy and some books at home to avoid any tantrums and tiny ugly waiting room book germs.
Inevitably, Jack walks to the side of the room that has, who I will call, the horse mommy sitting on it.
I call her this because her 3 yr old daughter is riding a wooden horse, and this mom is speaking loudly   (to her daughter), but we all know she is speaking to be heard. She is sharing her vast knowledge of horses.  "Well, you're small now, but someday you can ride OUR horse; she is 8 feet tall) her daughter is not listening, but I can't help but have to. " You can ride bareback just like mommy someday"...of course you can ride bareback...
Anyway, I tried to avoid all eye contact until her daughter came over and started playing with Oscar's toy. It was hanging from his car carrier, and she was swinging it to where it was going to hit his face.  That is when I found it awkward. I looked at her and said, "Please don't do that. He's a baby, and this is a baby toy, your not a baby, right?"  This is when horse mommy galloped up.  Her hair was actually in a ponytail with several ponytail holders on it. I don't know what the proper term for this is other than horse-like and a blast from 1984.
She didn't correct her daughter but decided to tell me about some Vizio toy things.  It was then that I saw with my peripheral vision that Jack was asking a toddler girl a question, and because she couldn't speak, his voice was getting louder and louder.  I needed to happily intervene to get away from horse-lady, but she KEPT talking.
Thankfully, by the time I rescued the toddler girl from Jack's interrogation, " IS that your MOMMY? Is that your MOMMY?"
she and her daughter had been escorted to the back.
I then had a moment to observe the types of mommies there.
To my left, I had the
borderline abusive mommy- she was telling her son that she was going to "smack his butt" if he didn't "git" over here.
I had the paranoid mommy- who had brought a gallon of hand sanitizer with her. She also happened to be the same mommy who Jack was speaking to her daughter, which I'm sure made her very uncomfortable.  She had a blanket and a bag of toys and pre-packaged snacks, which (Jack asked to have) just for her kid.
The image-mommy, who has her daughter decked out in the latest and greatest, even a tutu, and she is also wearing a very expensive-looking pair of jeans with stilettos, and I want to ask her if her nanny is in that huge purse of hers. Because there is no way she had time to look like that, let alone walk in those with a 2-year-old.
The image-mommy NOT this woman has a t-shirt on and her child is wearing half pajamas and half clothes, no shoes and sporting serious bed head, along with her mom.
Techno- mommy- I guess I could kind of fall into this category because I do text, check facebook and my work email while in the waiting room, but NOT to the point where my kids runs off into the street and I have no idea he even left.
The NON-MOMMY mommy- this is the woman who is in denial of being a mom and is clearly dressed like she doesn't have kids ( tight sweatpants that read PINK on the butt), and her kids are glued to Nintendo DSIs, and she is on her phone.
The Grand Standing mommy- this is what category I would consider horse mom, because she is openly and loudly talking to her daughter like she is deaf, only so others can hear her.
The Lone wolf- this is the poor dad who doesn't know how or why he got there, but just wants to leave.

I stand in waiting rooms. It may sound strange, but I have to guard the exit or my son my try to escape.  I let him play with the toys. He doesn't put them in his mouth or anything.  Most of the kids that are there are not sick; they are there for shots or check ups.  Or because of the recent Similac scare, they are getting their child x-rayed for insect parts. The truth is, my sons probably get their fair share of insect parts ingestion when they are outside; one bug leg never killed anyone.  I don't agree that formula should be tainted with bug parts, but the people that are freaking out are the same ones that will drive their kids through Chick-fil-A or any other fast food place with teenagers doing who-knows-what to their kids' french fries.

After an hour and a half, 4 shots, 1 nasal mist, and one oral dose of vaccines, we are out the door; I'm back to work.  I work in the small, tiny percentage of the population that does not, will not, or care to have kids. They can't imagine the horror I just witnessed, and besides the band-aids and safety-pop souvenirs, it is selectively forgotten as well.

Having a ball

Today started off like any other day. I woke up successfully and worked out. Everyone got out of the house on time; the boys shirts were unstained.  Work was going pretty well, and as I was working away, I had the realization that my husband was going to be gone this weekend. I have known this for at least 2 months. He went to a Scottish Highland Games event. I cannot even think about mentioning that I don't want him to go because I'm going to be going to a different continent for the first half of December.
So this morning he made me coffee, told me I was so beautiful and he couldn't imagine being away from me and the boys for even 24 hours....
Not so much.
He clearly did not catch my drift. If he did, he chose not to set sail on it.
After 3 of my 4 sons were born, I was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety/depression. After the first one, I didn't even tell my doctor how I was feeling, so it went undiagnosed.....Mind you, I'm only 6 months out of having a baby. I was on medication for this for about 3 months, but I felt like I could handle it on my own, so far so good, I think.  But when I realized that I was going to be alone...with four children, my inadequacies start knocking at the door, and I had no choice but to let them in.
Because of this, my entire day was thrown off. My daily interactions with everyone are just... off.
One thought, correction, one FEAR has set me on a fear roller coaster.

Usually I'm excited when the work day is over and for me to be greeted by my mini-fan club at home, but today was different.  When I finally did get home. I had already suited up in my issue armor as I walked in the door.
My husband left before dinner, and as hard as I tried not to, I gave him a look that could kill and once again, being married for 9 years, I know he noticed it, but just made a choice to pretend he didn't.
The last thing I felt like doing was making dinner; besides, we didn't have anything to make.
My 3 year old sensed my discomfort, as only a kid can do. I was sitting on the floor having a stimulating conversation with the baby, and he brought me a rubber ball. Jack sat on the other side of our living room floor, and we started rolling it back and forth to each other. Back and forth, back and forth. After about 3 minutes of this, I was about to suggest that he check to see if his toys were "ok"  in his room, when I felt an overwhelming sense of calmness.  I just started focusing on the methodical simplicity of interacting with my son with a...ball of all things.  My nerves began to dissipate.
Even when I write the word nerves, I find myself slightly embarrassed.
How can I be nervous being around my own kids?
I fed the baby. As I sat there spooning carrots in his mouth, on the verge of tears, I thought, I need to get out of here. I called down to the 2 older ones and said, let's go to dinner!
If it involves food, or going somewhere, they are on it. They emerged from their play cave in less than a minute.
As contradictory as the statistics prove, I actually feel safer in the car than not. All my boys are accounted for, strapped in, and quiet.  I pull into Taco Bell. This causes a minor happiness riot.
This is a bi-annual event.  Taco Bell is just not something that happens everyday. As I gathered the food, which, on a side note, is NOT as cheap as I remember, I pulled into a parking space, and we had a car picnic.  My oldest asked me to turn the music off so we could talk.  As we sat, eating our burritos, watching cars pass, Jack explained where every one of them was going: "he's going to work," "he's going home," he's going to work," he's going home," repeat. repeat. repeat.
My oldest son asked, Mommy, can I work at your work after college? Sure, I said.
Fin then interrupted,
"What time is lunch break for college kids? Do they get a snack?  Parker got angry, " Fin, stop interrupting!"
If we work together, can we have lunch together every day? We could walk to Chipotle!
I told him that I would really like that as I fought back tears and here is why.
1. That he noticed that I wasn't feeling so happy.

2. That I know he doesn't like Chipotle and that he knows  I do.
After that, I realized that maybe I have done a decent job raising my boys.  I had the crazy idea to take them to Target.  I wish I could say that they all behaved perfectly
but then I would be lying.
But it was in that small moment, which I'm confident they won't remember, that gave me the little boost I needed to know that I can do this, even if it is for only 36 hours

Well, your Uncle Arthur was gay...

My parents have lived in the same house for 37 years and decided to clean out the closets. I guess their hopes of me moving back home have ceased.  This means bins and BINS of 1970 and 80's baby paraphernalia delivered to my siblings and my front door. Items, which I don't remember at all, which lead me to the conclusion that I will NOT be saving the boys' first onsie/tooth/pajamas for them.  As my 74-year-old Dad lugged this heavy box in, under the strict direction from my mom, I thought "Sure, my house is half your size, and has 3x as many people living in it, but I would be happy to take this bin from you."
But because my siblings' children are older than mine, I received Nathan's baby stuff too; Jack may be sporting a polyester leisure suit in the very near future.
As I sifted through the stuff, I found a red sequenced vest that my brother had worn in his portrayal of Bobby Riggs..who was/is a famous tennis player. My mom had enrolled him in dance lessons as a kid with my sister.  He had worn this in his recital debut.  It was Jack's size, so I found myself recreating Nathan's glory and dressing Jack in the vest, with a tennis racket, and sending it to my brother.. I quickly received a text. It read, "Well, your Uncle Arthur was gay."
LOL. Really, I don't use that acronym, but I really did laugh out loud.
An explanation is necessary.  A few posts back, I said that Nathan gets paid to take his shirt off; in all honesty, that is only a fraction of what he does.  Nathan is a talented world known baritone singer, who has not only worked hard for the beautiful voice he has, but also for the body it comes from. Enough work to earn himself a Grammy, but whenever he is in an Opera, chances are the director will have him sing without his shirt...and sometimes without his pants (eek)
Nathan started singing in public at the age of 13, and I was 6.  I can't recall a time when he was NOT singing.
It was when he decided to pursue voice in college that my mom decided to tell her father.  So on a foggy morning at a Big Boy over waffles, my mom told her father that his grandson was going to major in voice in college. It was then that he uttered his infamous reply,
"Well, your uncle Arthur was gay....(beat) and I loved him....( beat) so I guess I can love him too."
I applaud my grandfather's openness, because "accepting" isn't a word I would have used to describe him. Perhaps it was the fact that my mom was a dancer and the majority of men she worked with were gay. Who knows, but to my grandpa anything artsy = gay.
Let me avoid any misconception here. Nathan is not gay. I'm his sister, and I couldn't care less about his sexuality, but because I love my nieces and nephews and sister-in-law, I'm compelled to say it, but I'm also compelled to say that if he was I wouldn't love him any less.
This statement however, adds another layer of depth to the onion which was my grandpa. He loved his brother, who was gay.
This is the same man who........
Didn't wear a seat belt.
Ran over my dog. (She lived)
Put me in the middle front seat of his Cadillac and would drive fast over railroad tracks so I would hit my head on the ceiling.
Threw a baseball at Nathan when he was 3, which hit him square in the eye and sent him to the ER, and his response was, "He should have caught it"
Would drive to Las Vegas with my Grandma, only stopping for gas... and I mean this, they had a porta-potty in their car.
Threw a family-size Bible at my dad on Thanksgiving.
Put money in his shoe.
While cleaning out a shotgun in the bathroom, accidentally fired it; a bullet went through the wall, into the kitchen, through the microwave, and missed my grandmother by a hair.
Ate pie by the, well, pie.
In his older years, claimed to be Jewish.
Worked off his bootlegging father's debt.
Didn't drink (see above).
He loved scratch-off lottery tickets.
His Mother burned to death by accidentally catching her dress on fire in a gas stove.
Stopped his watch when my grandmother died, and never reset it.
Had a heart-to-heart with Nathan and told him to practice safe sex and wear "condo's".
He mowed his huge lawn with two push lawn mowers...at the same time.
Loved his family more than life.
When he was buried, we put two things in his pocket: a lottery ticket, and the picture of Nathan that he carried around and showed anyone who would look at it.
He died in 2000; my husband didn't even get to meet him.   As he got older, he was starting to be a little less, for lack of a better word, less of a racist, sexist, and maybe a bit more open-minded, or maybe it was his dementia.  I'm glad he didn't have to witness 9/11, and I shudder to think of how he would have reacted to a black president.
So maybe the bin of things wasn't just old junk after all.  Maybe its the conversation ( or at least a LOL) that goes along with the stuff all the more important.

Confessions of a former bully.

I have a bit of a secret... I tried to make a go as a bully.  Preschool- second grade, I was an angel, and then something happened.  In 2nd grade, my good friend Kristen turned on me.  She was hot, then cold. Without warning, she would decide not to eat her lunch with me one day, and be my best friend the next.  On the bad days, I would go into the bathroom and cry. My mom let me wear a tiger eye ring she had buried in her jewelry box; she said that when I was sad, I should look at it and know she was with me, and surprisingly, it worked.  By the time I was in 3rd grade, I was calloused by the harsh reality of elementary school. I decided to be a mean girl. There was a little boy named Adam. Unfortunately for him, his lunch had a tuna fish sandwich in it,  and because of that, I would declare that he smelled. I rallied and got everyone else to say that Adam stunk. For a moment on the playground, I was queen bee.  Adam stood alone.  It wasn't until my mom packed me (gasp) a tuna fish sandwich one day that the tables quickly turned.  My bullying days were over..for now.
For 4th -8th grades, I wasn't the bully, but there was a girl in our class that held that title very well.  All the little girls followed her around, except me. I got labeled as "weird" except on the soccer field, when everyone wanted to be on my team. I was ok with that until one particular bad 12-year-old day when I was getting into my locker. I overheard the group of girls openly talking about me and making fun of my dad, because he was not a doctor. Not only did it hurt, but it was nothing that I could change.  I went home and locked myself in my room.  I was low. I thought that my entire life was over.  I could NOT see past that moment. I wanted to die. Yes, it sounds asinine. If my 33-year-old self could go back to myself and say the next 21 years are going to be amazing,  don't define yourself by this one moment that in retrospect will mean nothing.  But I couldn't. In walked my dad. I told him I was in a very dark place. He knelt down next to my bed.  He was probably the last person I wanted to see; it was his career choice, after all, that the girls were making fun of me for.   He told me that I was smart and funny, and the world would be a much sadder place if I wasn't in it.  My dad didn't care what those girls said; he was a very successful business man who not only provided for the family, but enjoyed what he did.
I like to think of a bully as a fire in a fireplace.  It might burn for a while, but it needs to be fed paper, oxygen or logs to keep it going. Without an audience, a bully can't burn anyone, at least that is the way it was.  Let's jump to the present day, specifically the recent suicides of teenage boys who were bullied so badly that they could not see past it.  The present-day bully fire doesn't need to be fed by people in person. It can be fed by cowards who also feel horrible about themselves, and the only way they can make themselves feel better is by witnessing others' misfortune...anonymously.

The truth is, I liked tuna fish, but I didn't want anyone to think I smelled.  Perhaps the bullies in this case also were uncomfortable with feelings they had, and needed to expose someone else before they came out themselves.
Last year, my oldest son was the victim of a bully.  Parker was at a book fair and mentioned that he liked Goosebumps books.  Another little boy told him that not only was that Goosebumps book stupid, but that Parker was too and ANYTHING he liked was stupid. His sidekick laughed at my son.
I immediately went into mama-bear-mode. I wanted to punish that little sh*t,
1. for insulting my son and
2. for discouraging Parker from reading because we worked all summer telling him that books were cool.
I had to simmer down.  I realized that my feelings were more hurt than my son's. I tried not to expose my pain, hurt, or fear that he would not be liked by his peers.  I explained to Parker that sometimes people say things as a way to express the pain that they feel inside.
A couple of weeks passed, and the first grade was studying Martin Luther King Jr. and the importance of equality; they also used this opportunity to speak about bullying.  Parker raised his hand. His teacher called on him, even though she didn't ask a question, and he stood up and explained that (blank) had been picking on him, but he forgives him, because it just means that ( blank)  is sad in his heart.  Nothing like a little humble pie to stuff (blank)'s mouth shut.
Guess what? It worked. He stopped. My son had confidence that his ideas are not worthless and he moved on.
That is the best-case scenario, but I'm talking about 6-year-olds; in 12 years, could this little boy have been the one cowardly putting a webcam up in his dorm room and violating his privacy?

I wish that one of those young guys would have felt comfortable to just look at someone, anyone, and say, I'm in a really dark place right now; maybe it would have given just enough time to shed some light on their darkness.

Teach tolerance. 

The Ghosts of workout past

I have started a new workout regimen.  This isn't something that I do often... find a new routine, but every half decade or so, I go on a kick.
A brief overview.. I was a very active kid. Played soccer, track, and tennis. I rode my bike around the neighborhood, and sometimes I would just run up and down the hill in our front yard (just for fun).
It wasn't until my sophomore year of high school that my grades slipped. Damn boys, and my parents made me take a season off. They even threatened girls' school, but that is an entirely different and torrid tale.. It wasn't until my yearbook picture was taken that I noticed that I had put on quite a few lbs.  I reflect fondly on those times when sizes were just a number to me. 4,6,8, 10... it didn't matter as long as it fit.  But one Friday afternoon when I received my school picture, my world changed forever. One... why did I choose to wear a beige vest? And two,  when did I get that extra chin?  That didn't stop me from my Friday night ritual of eating pizza.  Then on a lazy Sunday morning I got out of bed ( at noon) to have Cap n' Crunch, and my mom was watching an infomercial. I was half awake when I heard the words that would be heard for the next 10 years of my life. "FAT IS WHAT MAKES YOU FAT," Susan Powter screamed. "STOP the INSANITY, STOP the INSANITY."  Yes, hindsight ( and my father)  will tell you that Fat is not the only thing that makes you fat, but it was on TV; it had to be accurate, right? It was at that very moment that I stopped eating anything with a fat gram.  My mom and I went to the grocery store and looked at every label. Fat Free?...well then, let's get it! Coffee Cakes, Milk, Frozen Yogurt, White Bread!  Ahh, to be that naive again. I had no idea about calories or servings; I just looked at the huge letters on the front of the package that read FAT FREE. This was also before mandatory nutrition labels became a law, so sometimes it was tricky.   I also joined my first gym. Fitness USA, where a pushy saleslady circled areas on a picture of a woman ( which even then looked dated) and told ME where I needed to lose weight. Mind you... I was 15 years old and was not by any means obese, especially by today's standards.  She also said that if I did just 20 minutes on a Stairmaster 3 days a week ( funny, the gym was girls only on those days and I couldn't have worked out more even if I had wanted to), I could look like Jennifer Aniston, and not only that, they had a smoothie bar with FAT FREE smoothies to "reward" myself after I worked out.  Trust me, you don't need to remind me of how ridiculous this all sounds.
It's not surprising how I caught the exercise bug.  It's genetic. My mom was always playing tennis,  doing jazzerzize and on a diet ( at 70 she still is), and my Dad is thin by nature, but jogged or walked. If there is any good in this trait, I at least hold myself 100 % accountable and not blame anyone (media, parents, my cat) for my weight gain. My siblings work out also, and my brother gets paid to take his shirt off, well sort of, but that is a long story that takes a bit to wrap your brain around so we'll hold that for another post altogether.
Miraculously, I lost weight.  I continued the Fat Free craze through my junior year of college, but I varied my workouts. I stopped going to the all-girls gym and started at the best health club in town. I did classes, got a trainer, and lifted weights properly.  I was on a pretty good path if you consider constantly worrying about my fat intake and the size of my clothes a good path.  I was like a diet info bank; if I heard any diet tidbit, I would deposit it into my "nutritional knowledge" bank and only withdraw that knowledge when needed.  One thing that probably saved my life and, in a twist of fate, allowed me to graduate from college was that I overheard a guy in the gym say that alcohol suppresses your body's ability to burn fat. DING DING DING!  I think I should find this guy and hug him. Without overhearing that, I surely would have been a lush in college.
Once in college, I worked out 7 days a week, and a boyfriend of mine introduced me to protein. Get your mind out of the gutter; I mean the benefit of good protein, and as long as I was 100 % sure it was fat-free, I would eat it. However, one time while he was making me dinner, I did see him put a tablespoon of olive oil in the water, and I didn't speak to him for days..
This, however, was a slippery slope into Atkins-ville. This was very popular at the time. But because I still had a fat gram phobia, I didn't eat red meat... So basically the next year I only ate egg whites and chicken breast, skim milk and cottage cheese. Gone were any carbs. In my mind, carbs were fat grams, evil cousin.  I also wouldn't eat past 7 PM and put a heating pad on my stomach because it hurt so bad at night.   There is no middle ground with me; it's all or nothing. I did drop weight very quickly, but my skin was horrible, I was an emotional mess, and guess what...the number on the scale became my nemesis.
I then moved to Los Angeles. A great place for a young girl pursuing acting with a borderline eating disorder to go, don't you think?
Believe it or not, this is where I found nutritional sanity. I started eating...gasp...vegetables and even fruit!  My workouts ranged from machine pilates, yoga and boxing.   When I hit yet another plateau in my mind, I hired a trainer..Albert.
*Obvious Observation: I clearly had nothing else to think about, no kids, no career and my day revolved around food and exercise... not a full life if you ask me... and a bit of a miserable one.

Back to Albert..I have only fond memories of Albert. He was (is) the best trainer I have ever had. How did I afford this, you may ask? Waitressing and the bank of Dad.
Albert and I trained 4 days a week. He discovered my ridiculous strength and taught me to be proud of it.   We lifted weights, did plyometrics, and became good friends.  I have since had 4 or 5 trainers, and each of them knew they would never live up to Albert, who, btw, is a forensic psychologist living in the Bay Area.  He is responsible for me looking so buff in my wedding photos... and after close examination, a little TOO buff.
Uh oh.  Now on to the next phase. Cardio- city.  I moved to Indiana, and 2 years after that the spinning craze finally made it here.  Two classes a day. 30 min on the elliptical and then the inevitable happened. I got. pregnant.  If you heard a world coming to a screeching halt, that was mine.
But it was divine intervention. For me to be thinking of someone other than myself (and husband on occasion) was the best thing to ever happen to me. I cared more about the health of this developing little pumpkin than my..well,  ass. I didn't want a child made of only one thing, like.., crap, so I ate a variety of food; I only exercised, sadly to say....health.
The lifetime of exercise took care of me after my 9-pound baby was born.   Once you have a baby, you don't have 4 hours to devote to working out. You don't. No matter what Tracy Anderson says.
Fast forward.  I'm 5 months out of having my 4th son. And have been bitten by yet another fitness bug.  This time it's name is P90x. (So much for easing into it right?)
I'm on day 2. I even took before pictures yesterday, which I strongly DO NOT recommend.  I have already lost all the pregnancy weight, about 2 months ago. Now I'm going for the impossible...abs.
Maybe I am standing at the intersection of Jillian Michaels and Tony Little, but I plan on taking the mommy road less traveled. I will not return to high school me or college me because it's impossible. I now drink.

I'm bringing Classy back

Katy Perry's song, California Girls, " is a salute to the attire of gals on the West Coast, but somehow it lost something by the time it reached the Midwest. But since I overheard my sassy gay friend singing a slightly modified version of the lyrics, all I can now hear is
(Midwest girls they are forgettable, pajama bottoms and hoodies on top.)
We seem to have an epidemic in this country, or at least in my region, of complete lack of attention to one's personal appearance in public.  I have to admit, this has been on my mind for some time, but my in-laws were in town this past weekend, and not much reminds me of my own personal deficiencies than the parents of the man I married.
They drove to our home for our son's baptism this weekend. They drove 14 hours. This morning as I was getting ready for work and they were getting ready to drive home, I noticed something.  My father-in-law was wearing a pressed button-down Oxford neatly tucked into his khakis and sporting a brown belt.  His shoes were shined.  My mother-in-law came down with pearls and a "smart" sweater set. It begged the question...
"Where are you going"?
"Home", they said, trying not to appear very disappointed in the obviousness of that question.
" I mean, you're not stopping anywhere first"?
" no".
Even I am a little stumped by their attire. I understand flying and wanting to look good for whomever you pass in the airport, but when you go on a road trip, the only people you will come into any sort of contact with are in truck stops, and last time I checked, Tim Gunn doesn't frequent such places.
My road trip wardrobe consists of yoga pants and a tank, possibly a cardigan, but pearls?
I mentioned that they looked nice, and somehow that began a conversation at 8:15 a.m. about the state of the country's slapdash dressing. Mind you, I was supposed to be out the door 10 minutes ago, but I will listen, as a good daughter-in-law does.
As I watch the clock tick away and half-listen, something catches my ear's fancy.  My mother-in-law tells me that when they were kids, people even dressed up for football games.  They wouldn't be caught dead in dungarees ( which, in case you were wondering, are jeans).
I glance down at my work outfit with a bit of shame; it's mainly made out of rayon and spandex, and its color palette is black with a hint of black.
After I left, 20 min. later, I started to think and dare I say, AGREE, with what she was preaching about.  How in the world did it become acceptable to wear NFL fleece pajama bottoms with knock-off Uggs and a t-shirt to get groceries?  When did it become the norm to wear jeans to church..Yes, I know " God doesn't care what you are wearing," but good Lord, I DO!
This got me thinking even more about the recent decline in style. I remember that my sister worked at Taco Bell when she was in high school and also remember that my mom would press her vintage brown and orange uniform before she left.  She also wore a cute little taco bell bandanna thing on her head. Today, Taco Bell workers were generic polo shirts with stains on them...no hat. At least I think they do, but honestly the only time I visit Taco Bell these days is after a night of heavy "socializing," and my mind is on one thing only, and that is a chalupa.
But what about the medical field?  I specifically remember the nurse at my family practitioner's office wearing a white dress, white shoes with white tights; at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that they were clean. Now I  have no clue what is stained behind those Daffy Duck or neon floral scrubs.  And screw the white shoes, let's just wear orange Crocs.

And without sounding like a cranky old prude, what is with the length of shorts and skirts on girls these days!?  Is that a Huggies jean diaper you are wearing or shorts?

It just feels better to be put together. I swear that if I have a classy outfit on, ( ok I sound little too much like my mom) who btw taught "visual poise" to every 8th grade girl who graduated from my private school from the years of 1981- 2000, even if nobody sees me, I at least know that if I were to run into someone I cared about I would walk away happy that my hair wasn't in a chignon knot on top of my head.

Oprah Australia Adventure phase 1

I have begun the paperwork process for my Australian adventure.  As I previously mentioned, I did not have a passport; I was wrong. My mom, who keeps everything, called to tell me that I did indeed have one. We had gotten it when I was 20 years old and she "found" it, but we all know she is more organized than Peter Walsh.  When looking at this photo, I thought to myself, you know, youth really IS wasted on the young. I swear I looked 15 in that photo!  And btw, I have never been out of the country; why do I have a passport?
She brought me the old passport, and we went to the post office. Prior to this, I had gone and gotten my picture taken for the passport, and I won't even begin to tell you how lovely it is.
As I was filling out the paperwork for a renewal, my mom was standing behind me like a mom of a kindergartner sending their kid on the bus on the first day of school.
"Honey, are you going to share where you are going?"
" Yes, I'm going to Australia"
" But are you going to tell them with whoooo?"
I can tell she is about to burst with maternal pride.
I said, " I won the trip to go to Australia with Oprah"
At this moment, you would have thought I was Madonna. The woman appeared to be star-struck. Maybe Oprah does have some sort of Midas touch?
So with this, she took extra care to make sure everything would be expedited properly.  She did find a snafu.  My last name has changed.  This meant I needed to go to the courthouse and get my marriage license. On a side note, this is one perk of returning to the place that you were born and raised. Birth certificates, etc are only 3 blocks away from any point in the entire city.
But before she gave me detailed instructions on how to get there (as I said, I have only lived here the majority of my life after all), she wanted to introduce me to the "girls." I was then escorted into the main post office area where she announced that I had won a trip with Oprah. The "girls" broke into laughter and glee, and it was almost as though they had won themselves! They wanted to know all about it.
Mind you, there were people in line, but they didn't seem to be bothered by this in any way, shape, or form; they too wanted to hear all about it. So I told the story, a much abridged version.  I paid $160 for a money order and off to the courthouse.  As I was leaving, though, a little old Polish woman grabbed my arm and said, "Be safe and have a blessed trip with Oprah; I'll be praying for both of you"
I was then off to the courthouse.  As I walked in, I asked the uber-friendly security guard where I could go to get a copy of my marriage license. She directed me to the basement with a hand wave.  I thought this was kind of ironic, really. They send the criminals upstairs and the ones who want to get married, give birth, buy property, etc. downstairs...

As I approached the office, I felt like I had gone back in time to a bad 1950s movie and everything was black and white or grey.  I walked into the office, and when I asked about my marriage license, I seemed to have startled them with a human voice. As I was speaking to Martha ( I read the name plate on her grey desk), she asked the month and year I was married. She then went in the back and brought out a book the size of her.  She took all of her strength to open it, and it was a handwritten ledger to search for my husband's name...
*scratching needle on the record moment*
It was too shocking not to ask...
"So, you don't have this in a computer file anywhere?"
"Nope"
Ok then.  The air was so heavy and thick and musty in there, and maybe I'm overly sensitive, but it felt like a morgue.  I needed to lift the energy in that room quickly before I too became a black and white drone.
I said, "Is this going to assist in getting my passport expedited quickly"?
"Mmm hmm", she hummed.
"Because I was selected to go to Australia with Oprah"
Do you remember in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy goes to Oz, and everything is suddenly
techno- color. I swear this is what happened to Martha. She looked up at me with her fog-filled glasses and her face looked as though rouge had been carefully placed on her cheeks.  She beamed. " Oh my goodness, I just saw that show on Monday; you were there! Are you going? What is she like?  Did you meet John Travolta? I just love him, you know he is a good pilot...."   I hate to say this, but I believe I made her day, if not her week.
That is the power of Oprah, folks, and somehow I have harnessed it.
I got back into my mom's car, who btw is still smiling.  She asked if she could take me to lunch. After we decided on a place that I could run in and grab something, she pulled me up to the door.
"Isn't it nice to have a designated driver?" she asked
"Well yes, Mom, it would be if I were..um drunk." I understood what she was saying and just let that one go.

I contacted the Oprah reps and told them about my passport; they have been in constant contact via phone with us to ensure they properly orchestrate 300 people across the world.  I must say, when she does something, she goes all out.

And now hopefully my night terrors will stop. The ones that have me at the door of the plane and Oprah saying that she was sorry but my passport was never received... and bah bye. Bah bye.

You and you and me and Oprah are going to AUSTRALIA!!!

Oh my life.  It has been no secret that I have been an Oprah fan since birth...well, ok, not birth but since I can remember. Her first show aired nationally on Sept. 13, 1986, but because I grew up close to Chicago, my mom was watching her when she aired just in Chicago.  So I honestly cannot recall not having her on my television.  History is repeating itself because each one of my boys ( that can speak) could tell you who Oprah was. They not only see her face on the television, but they also see me reading O magazine.
I'm  "O"bsessed, you could say.  I have never been secretive about it either.  Anyone knows that if you are friends with me, you also take along my Oprah baggage.
Well, I was pretty sad to see that this was her last season.  Yes, it's been 25 years, and yes, she is 56 years old, but Betty White is close to 90, and I don't see her quitting her day job. But  I was just grieving in my OWN (get it Oprah Winfrey Network) way ahh Oprah humor never gets old.

So I was cruising her website just like any other day and noticed an icon asking-
Are you Oprah's Ultimate Fan?  Well, yes, yes, I am. So I filled out the form, which asked 3 or 4 questions defending my fanhood.   I didn't put a lot of thought into it; I was just honest.

You can say whatever you want about her, but in my opinion she is a world changer, humorous, and an all-around good egg.
Not long after I filled out the form, I was called by an Oprah staff member who asked me to elaborate on my answers...nooooo problem. After  I expatiated on Oprah for around 45 minutes, she said they would be in touch, but she did ask me to send her my photo....which I thought was interesting.
I didn't hear anything for a few days, and then I received an email asking if I would want to be an audience member. I was at work, busy, and just overlooked it.  I had been to an Oprah show before, and it was great, but I was just caught up in life and thought, how can I take a day off,  arrange pickups and drop-offs of the boys, etc.?  That evening I received a call around 9 pm from another Oprah rep. This time she asked me why I didn't respond, and she would really like me to go to the Sept. 9 taping.
Hold up.  Oprah wants ME to be at the taping? Well ok then!  I then called my best friend who also supports my Oprah fetish, and she said that " I made her life".
So off to Chicago we went.  It only took me about 2 hours to get there, and it was such a pleasant drive, actually listening to my music...not kids bop, or Backyardigans.
I arrived and pulled up to the studio; there was some guy on the corner that said
"You goin to the Oprah show?"
"Why, yes, yes I am."
" I'll park your car for $12"
"  You're so nice, Ok" I then threw my stilettos on the pavement, put them on, grabbed my purse and made a bee line to Oprah-ville."

*Looking back, this was probably not one of my smartest moments, thankfully the guy was legit and my car was retrieved. Only after he told me I looked like Sandra Bullock in the Blind Side....

I did notice, however, that this was different. I felt an excitement that wasn't there before. After going through a metal detector and having our purses searched, they allowed us access to the holding room. I did find it interesting that they confiscated my September issue of O magazine...but I could live without it for a few hours.  I told my bff that my only goal was to have eye contact with her.
When we got into the studio, they explained that when they posted the question on the website that received over 20,000 emails in the first day! They narrowed it down to 100 or so and let Oprah read them. She had the ultimate say on who would attend her season premiere.
She likes me, she REALLY likes me! I had NO idea that the show I was attending was going to be THE show.
The excitement in the studio that day was thick. While waiting to enter the studio, several people broke into a chant: We love Oprah, We love Oprah." Ok. As do I, but I also have a quiet dignity...
Once in the studio, we were chosen to sit in the front row with the knowledge that in the second half we would need to move. OK by me.  Oprah is exactly the same on television as she is in person; she is authentic. My friend can also be seen mouthing..." she's gorgeous" in the first 2 min. of the show.

Fast forward to the exclamation YOU. Are going with ME (Oprah) to AUSTRALIA!!!! You, and you and you and you.
At this point I went into a Hypovolaemic Oprah-shock. Screaming. Jumping. Hugging.  I then was overwhelmed with a few thoughts.
1. When? Now?
2. Oh crap. Now my husband is going to be a little peeved that I didn't take him.
3. I don't have a passport.
4. 10 days total? Should I leave the boys that long?
5. Snap out of it, you're going to be with Oprah and Travolta on the other side of the world!
6. How am I going to keep this a secret for 5 days?
7. Will Hugh Jackman be there?

Next thing I know, four of us are being escorted to the stage to have a photo with Oprah wearing Australian hats.  Then taken to the other side of the stage where Oprah is standing to take another photo!
I'm literally eye level * goal reached * with her.  I said, " Thank you so much, but honestly, you could have taken me to downtown Chicago, and as long as I was with you, I would have been happy"
She then grabbed my hand and laughed. I said, I have never even been out of the country." She said, Really? I'm so happy we are going to Australia then!
At that moment. My life value, in my humble opinion, increased tenfold. It was the 5th happiest day of my life
1. Marrying Don.
2. Birth of son #1.
2. Birth of son #2
3. Birth of son #3
4. Birth of son #4
5. Talking to Oprah.

Oprah brings out the best in humanity. She is a self-made icon, and she did it by being generous to others.  I have shared this with my friends, family, and Facebook friends and have felt nothing but overwhelming support and excitement.
As we left the studio after filling out tons of paperwork, there was a new friendship among us. We quietly told each other...see you in December as we crossed the street. I look forward to documenting my amazing journey in December.
http://www.eonline.com/videos/v71609_oprah-surprises-audience-with-trip.html

Do you have any "real" sugar around here?

This past weekend we had a house guest.  A house guest with our same last name, but not a relative.
An eighty-five-year-old man. How can I be friends with someone 50 years my senior? Well, funny you should ask. My husband has recently become slightly obsessed with our Scottish Clan heritage.  Interestingly, as his father aged, he too became a genealogy buff, which is another item I can add to the ever-growing list of my husband turning into his dad...But I digress; that is an entirely different post altogether.
Recently, the commissioner of our clan decided to hang up his sporran and hand down the commissioner-ship to another eager young man...that would be Don.
He nominated himself and was unanimously elected.
This means he goes around to area highland games and puts up a tent with anything and everything you would ever want to know about our Clan and how you fit into the grand scheme of things. His dad has traced both of our families back to Scotland in the 1600's. Yes, I'm Scottish American too. In fact our mothers are both Irish and our fathers Scottish (12th generation) and I have a feeling that is why Don wanted me to bare his children...but once again I digress...
So because these Highland Games were local, he invited this man to stay at our home to avoid the four-hour drive from his hometown.  I don't need to remind anyone that we have 4 kids. Our house is at maximum occupancy, and this means that our older son gets booted out of his room and it turns into a guest room with a bathroom...perfect for seniors.  But the only thing I know about this man, whom I have met twice, is that he is old, and we share the same last name. That's it. And he will be in our house, upstairs with our kids alone. Maybe I'm a bit cautious, but I have seen my share of To Catch a Predator, and I'm not going to take a chance. So the 3 older kids are shipped to Grandma and Grandpa's house for a sleepover. This would usually mean a kid-free night with wine, movies, sleep, even if the baby stayed home. But one senior citizen in my calculations is equal to or greater than 3 boys when it comes to attention given. And so I would learn.
I prepared for his visit by going shopping for soft food. The last time he was here, Don took him to lunch, and he only ate soup, so I assumed it was a denture issue.  I bought bananas, soup, and lemon meringue pie. Pasta?
I came home, and he had arrived.  It was 4:30...dinner time!  He suggested we go out, which I was more than happy to oblige. We went to the Olive Garden. I think the last time I dined at the Olive Garden was about 5 years ago, and it was our only option on a long road trip. Not much has changed. Breadsticks...Salad....label-less table wine.
On a side note: our waitress asked if Oscar needed a kids menu, or if he would like to color... he is 4 months old), so naturally the answer was
WTF?
I learned a couple things about our senior friend at dinner,  one is when the hostess says "watch your step" chances are she is speaking to him and don't bring up politics to a 3 time war veteran unless you REALLY want to know AND if there isn't anyone of Mexican heritage in ear shot.
I discovered that he is pretty hip for an 85 yr. old. He has a computer, and even orders his underwear online from Hanes.com. He prefers the elastic waistband on Hanes because it doesn't dig into his scar... the scar he has from his hip replacement, which he just happened to have a photo of in his wallet. You know, just typical dinner conversation.
I also was humbled to discover that our house is not as senior-equipped as I thought.  Some of our rugs slip; we have child locks on well...everything.  We don't have real sugar.  We don't have whole milk, and we don't have butter. What we do have is night lights, which I learned are a must for frequent late-night bathroom visits.
Because my typical nighttime routine consists of bathing 4 boys, bedtime stories and kisses, my time was a bit freed up. I only had to bathe one, who can't talk, so that took about 10 min. Then I would usually have a glass of wine or two, sit on the couch and vegetate in front of the reality show du jour. But tonight was different.  We sat at the kitchen island, and we visited. We talked for 3 hours.
I discovered how he felt when he was actually in the Normandy invasion, what it smelled like, what it looked like.  My only reference to that is in Saving Private Ryan, which, when asked, said it only captured a fraction of the horror.
I also learned that he married his wife when he was 21 and that he misses her every day; she died 10 years ago. He shared that because he was in the Navy, his wife wanted only 2 children; they had 2 sons and practiced "safe sex," but he couldn't resist her touch when he came home from Vietnam, and they conceived his daughter. A little TMI, but I just listened.
He shared what it was like to work hard and only buy what they could afford.  He built their house in 1966. He also shared that he has lost 4 of his 5 siblings. That 2 of his nephews fell through the ice one winter and drowned.  He shared his strong faith.
He also shared that he likes to bowl and has quite a busy schedule.  I learned that "go suck an egg" in old speak is pretty much the equivalent of "go fuck yourself "
I realized in my cyber static world I haven't taken the time to tap into the richest resource our humankind has, walking history.  My grandparents all passed away between 1997-2000. All four of them.  I regret not listening to them when I had a chance.
Overall, it was a big kick in the kilt.  All my moaning and groaning was, albeit, justified at the time, but this visit was a bit of an eye-opener; maybe real sugar isn't evil, maybe...
I have already started planning our next visit with our adoptive grandparent with the same last name but no relation.

Britney was on to something...

Do you remember not too long ago when a photo of Britney Spears emerged of her in a barber shop, with a slightly certifiable look in her eye, shaving her own head?  People were outraged, thought she was insane, laughed at her, mocked her on various talk shows, but what people didn't realize is that she was on to something.
I would find it quite liberating to buzz my hair off. I thought of this today as I was getting ready.  From 5:30 a.m. to 8:15 a.m., every second of each minute seems to have an albeit trivial, purpose in my morning. As soon as my feet reluctantly hit the floor I'm doing something for someone else, pulling underwear down, pulling underwear up, filling a sippy cup with ovaltine, no apple juice, no grape juice, placing vitamins next to breakfast bowls,  pouring cereal, dumping uneaten cereal in the sink, burning my hand on a pop tart, spitting on my hand to smooth hair, putting toothpaste on toothbrushes, feeding the dog, giving the dog a vitamin, making coffee, changing the channel to Maggie and the Ferocious Beast, changing a diaper,  making 3 lunches, burning my lip on coffee, tucking shirts in, ignoring stains on uniform shorts, finding my husband's wallet, finding my husband's cell phone, stepping on a lego and then I get a chance to step into the bathroom with my chocolate lab underfoot.  He insists on being in the bathroom with me; it is his feeble attempt to escape the chaos outside the door, as well.  He looks at me as if to say..." this is not what I signed up for 10 years ago when I joined this family" we have an understanding...As I stand in front of the mirror, I don't know if I'm going to have a solid 5 or 10 minutes to get myself ready. I look myself in the eye for about 2 seconds and try to decide if I can get away with not washing my hair today, which would save me a good four minutes.
Britney Spears was a genius.  Of all the things I could or should be thinking of, this is what runs through my head.
I pull my hair back tight and actually consider for a moment what I would look like with a buzz cut.  I certainly don't have the bone structure, but maybe.. I... could pull it off.   As I place my blonde nest of frizz in a knot on top of my head and step in the shower, I seriously eye ball the razor and think.....
I'm then jolted out of my morning fantasy by Jack who announces that he prefers Yo Gabba Gabba to Maggie and the Ferocious beast and that his brother, Oscar is demanding that I change the channel...even though Oscar is 4 months old.
My shower time is over.  I didn't wash my hair today, and it looks anything but professional in a ponytail, but for a moment Britney Spears and I saw eye to eye.