Magic Camp

Summer is just around the corner.  It must be a very large corner because I have been ready for about 3 months now.  Don and I are fortunate enough to be home in the summer. I often day dream about our summer days, especially on a day like today. The very first thing that my boss said to me as I walked in the door was " I have melanoma, come look at this mole!"  I prayed that it is in a place that is typically not covered by clothes and I thought of about 400,000 other things I would have preferred to look at.  Begrudgingly I abbliged and if that wasn't enough, he google imaged cancerous mole and showed me.  I guess I can add that to my list of things you should never google image, right under "rash".
As I try un-see what I have just seen, I make my way into my office.  My blackberry chimed a reminder entitled "Magic Camp".  I knew my mind would subconsciously suppress the reminder and that why I added it to my calendar.  As much as we love summer, experience has taught us that after about 5 days of family bliss we will be wanting the boys to get out of the house.  That is why some genius invented summer camps.  There are several local camps. science camp, wilderness camp, soccer camp, golf camp, baseball camp. But my son doesn't want any of those. He wants Magic Camp. * note I am
jazz-hands-ing in sarcasm whenever I say it.  If he didn't look exactly like my husband I would think he was switched at birth.  I don't have anything against magicians really, but when I think of one, I recall waiting for a table at the Outback Steakhouse and one coming over to pull a hanky from his wand..or maybe that was a clown? I digress.
So I go to the website for the local Magic camp. It is 5 days a week for one week from 8- 1.  That is an awful lot of card tricks. And if that info wasn't enough, it shows a picture of previous magic camp attendees. Magic Alumnus if you will.  I know all kids are unique and special and all that, but these two boys are about 57 pounds and 5 feet tall. As pale as a white rabbits and wearing tiedye.  I have a hard enough time getting Fin out of the basement as it is. This may be the slippery slope deep into never-get -a-date-ville, and if that is the case, he WILL live in my basement forever.   As I perused the website I discovered that the minimum age is 8, Finegan is 7. Eureka!  I decide to email the guy just to be sure.  I don't know if its a magic trick, but I got the email returned instantly. Undeliverable.  That means I have to call him. Ugh. Thankfully I got an answering machine.
Hello you have reached the bla bla residence and also STEEEVVEEE the MAAGGICIAN! Please leave a message.  Of course his name is Steve.  Other than David Copperfield and Criss Angel I think all magicians are named Steve.  And come to think of it, David and Criss don't even call themselves magicians anymore, they are "mind freaks". I leave a message and hope I said my number too fast.  I didn't. He calls back while I'm in the shower and Don answers.
Don seems to miss "major issues" that are going on in our family.  I know I have told him the age dilemma crisis regarding magic camp, but its seems that he put on his autopilot face and stored way way back somewhere in his brain. Right next to a few other key things that make our family function.  I actually said this very sentence to him this morning,
" If I just decided to take a break from my daily house hold duties we would have starving, dirty, rabidness naked kids running through the house" I was referring to the fact that for the past few days I have been the only person who has grocery shopped, planned meals,  cooked, cleaned, did laundry and got our dog immunized.  But who is keeping track right?
So when the person on the other end of the phone line said, hello this is Steve the magician returning your call, Don was dumfounded and was waiting for the punchline.
Cue Don entering the bathroom to interrupt my glorious shower with "Did you call a magician?"  I wanted to say yes, so I could magically turn you into a husband who cares!  But I didn't. I knew he was holding the phone and that our conversation could be heard so I gave him the look. The look that says
 HELLO?  Have you not overheard our son's monologue that has been on a loop that goes a little like this, (Have you called the magician? Have you called the magician? Have you called the magician?")
Women underestimate how well we communicate with our eyes.  It was then that Don awakened from his coma and started talking to the magician and thankfully left the bathroom so I could finish my shower.
 Two minutes later , cue Don entering the bathroom AGAIN. He said that the magician had agreed to let him attend the camp even though he is 7 only if Don could vouch that he is serious about magic.  Don confidently did and now our son is on the list, and a very short list I'm sure.

I'm not Mama Cass

Recently I went to a sing-a-long at Jack's pre-school.  I hadn't gone all year and I thought that before this school year is over (4 days away) I should. I remember when I had school functions and both of my parents were there.  And for what it was worth, I thought they enjoyed every second of it.  Why wouldn't they like sitting in a crowded gym watching kids nervously mumble song lyrics?
I arrived early and got a great seat so I didn't have to sit on the floor. I saw my son march in with his class and his eyes searching for me and when he finally saw me he lit up.  I had instant guilt at the thought of all the other times he searched for me and I wasn't there.  Now whatever excuse I used as to why I couldn't seems unacceptable.
As more and more parents arrived I began to notice something. I am NOT like the other moms. I wonder if I ever will be.  As they began to sing-along another mom knew all the lyrics and she sat with her child on her lap and they harmonized in a perfect explosion of mother child bonding.  I mouthed the words the best I could and sipped my latte. But when Jack would turn to me, I gave him the thumbs up, our family's universal sign that we are paying attention.
I looked around and almost everyone seemed to know the words. One of the songs was, and I am not joking, called My Pussy. Seriously, and it was like a riddle, My pussy is fuzzy, and she blows in the wind.. or something like that.
I had to choke back laughter. I scanned the room for any other parents so I could smile at and share the sordidly perverted notion of this song.  Nobody. I was in my own private hell and thinking, ok how on Earth can all of you perfect parents know this song and NOT think its ridiculous, even if it is about a pussy willow? The next song was about a turtle and its head. Turtle head. And the teacher had a hand puppet that she would navigate the turtles head in and out. Again, why isn't anyone else finding humor in this song?
I glance over to Mama Cass, I call her that because she is a modern day hippie.  Although she is not fat, she has pig tails. My first rule is never trust an adult woman with pigtails.  She isn't wearing any makeup and she appears to be wearing an ensemble made from hemp.  I can't be certain, but I think her daughter is wearing the same thing.  She is swaying with her daughter in her lap, sitting criss-cross- apple-sauce. In case you don't know, that is the PC version of Indian style.   And as I watch her I become increasingly aware of my inadequacies.
I am brought back to reality because it is now time for Jack to do his harmonica quartet. Where did he get that harmonica, and once I see the 20 cent price tag I remember he got it from a neighbors yard sale. I thought I disposed of that long ago, but like a ouiga board it just keeps coming back. 
I have now finally looked at him long enough to decide that the hair cut my husband gave him is not as good as I once thought. He looks like a punk skater. His bangs are angled and long and the sides and back are very short.  He is wearing a size 3 shirt ( he is a size 5) and size 6 shorts.  If I would have known he was going to be wearing a name tag while standing on display, I would have put more thought into his outfit.  His face is turning more and more red and I realize that he is forgetting to breath. His eyes are looking at me in a panic, but I give him the thumbs up and I am proud of him for his tenacity. Its finally finished and he comes over to sit next to me and whispers that he feels dizzy. I pray he doesn't pass out because I too am a fainter and it may get ugly, plus I wouldn't know what to do. I continue to scan the other parents and what I realize is that Mama Cass isn't the only one who knows all the words ( and is wearing hemp I might add).  I feel like a lame parent.

It goes back to how I pictured myself as a mom, or how I pictured my mom when I was a kid.  Maybe she didn't enjoy every moment of every little concert, but I at least thought she did.  At this point in my life I assumed I would be one of those moms who knew all the words to my kids songs or knew exactly what they were doing at school. The truth is, I don't.  In fact, sometimes I even get their ages wrong.  I catch my mistake quickly though. But I feel like an idiot when someone asks my children's ages and I pause, think and say " 9,8, no wait...7, 4 or is he 5? and 2."
I have to admit that I may have more on my plate then some of these parents. After all, I have 4 kids, a needy boss ( who could be considered a 5th kid), a husband and 2 dogs.   I was also recovering from an outpatient surgery and I was on percocet when this was all happening, and that may have led to my inappropriate giggle at the pussy song.  Regardless, I  was left feeling like I haven't yet matured into the parent that knows everything and anything about their child. I wonder if I need a new app to help with that.
As the sing-along-concluded with a good-bye song, the teacher asked if anyone knew another way to say goodbye. Jack jumped up and raised his hand and when called on he said " au revoir "with perfect French diction! Wait a second.  That was my son!  A collective gasp could be heard and he reveled in
the attention as he turned around and smiled at me.  I may not be feeding him organic, gluten free carob quinoa cookies, but I have been letting him watch a French dvd and books that seem to have penetrated his brain! Even if it was just a babysitter so I could make dinner.  My heart swells with pride and I give him two thumbs up although he clearly deserved more. He blows me a kiss and is on his way to lunch.  I may not be the au natural mom I envisioned myself to be, but to him, not knowing the words to his songs didn't matter, because in this case all that matters were my thumbs which I now realize are at the end of my fully extended arms which are in the air. He doesn't see a dorky mom, he sees that I fanatically approve and that is after all, what matters most.

What is Sexy?

I recently had the realization that my husband and I have been together for 13+ years.  That is crazy, especially when I think about how I used to measure relationships in months. Not surprisingly those relationships fizzled and died. The longest one I had prior to Don was 3 years. Well, total, not including several intermittent break ups.  The year mark was the crucial turning point in any relationship I had and if I made it that long without getting annoyed with the person( or vice versa) then we were on the road to success. Obviously, Don was the lone survivor.
My niece (15 years old) recently asked me how I knew Don was "the one", and I poetically told her that he was the only one that I didn't get tired of.  Of course there is more to that, but that is quite possibly, the honest to God truth. And after all these years its still true.
What amazes me though, is that I learn something new about our relationship every so often that if I had known this, lets say 12 years ago it would have made our lives much better.   I was watching Don the other day change a diaper.  Oscar loves Dora the Explorer, so Don was making him laugh with a narrative
First, you go uuuuuup the leg, then oooooover the belly to the pity party!!! (a pity party is when Don tickles Oscar's arm pit).  I could hear Oscar hysterically laughing and I thought, damn, that's sexy. Not the narrative so much, but the vision of Don enjoying changing his son's diaper.
Did I ever dream that seeing a dad in a mini van would be attractive? Never.  In college, I don't ever recall seeing a man in a minivan. Why? Because they might as well have been invisible.  I also didn't find fellow college guys attractive. The only time I did was when I was in high school.  Once in college I discovered that the majority of them were extremely immature. I did find my professors appealing. Why? Because they were confident and smart.  And because they had a drink with the purpose of enjoyment, not to get smashed.
Don does things on a daily basis that I think are the sexiest things on Earth. Rolling up his sleeves, exposing his forearms to wash dishes. Sexy.  Bringing coffee to me in the morning while I'm in the shower so when I get out it will be there. Sexy. Watching him do something he loves to do, (yard work). Sexy. I could go on and on and this morning wasn't any different.  Its the little things that I
(and most married women) find extremely appealing. Unlike a man standing there naked. I recently had a conversation with girlfriends and there seems to be an epidemic of husbands flashing their wives.  It does nothing for us, unlike men, some of us are not just visually stimulated. Just FYI.
So I started to wonder what Don found attractive about me, even after all these years, so I decided to ask him. This is the fatal flaw that I should have discovered years ago. I don't ask Don these sorts of questions for information, I ask them for acclamation.  Before I ask the question I already have the perfect answer in my head and when he doesn't say what I like, I become very mad at him.  Honesty does not help him out in this situation.  Here are few example of questions and the answers I got, vs. the answers I wanted.
Me: What do you find sexy about me? His answer: "When I just saw you naked in the shower and your waist curves right where it should above your butt" (followed by a primal grunting sound)
What I wanted to hear: " When I see you rocking a baby to sleep, and your hair is a little messy, you simply look beautiful and sexy"
Me: Ok, but what do you find sexy that isn't part of my body? His answer, after a very pregnant pause: "I think you style is sexy, like when you are getting dressed and you put your heals on first and then your dress." followed by a very crude gesture with his body that looked like humping air. * note, I swear he is not a teenage boy even though his responses clearly reflect that.  What I wanted to hear:
"On Saturday mornings when you first wake up, there is a beautiful glow about you when you are rested, especially when you are not wearing an ounce of makeup."
As you can imagine I was growing more and more frustrated with his answers so I thought I would give him one last chance with a simple question.
Me: What did you find sexy about me when we were first dating? His answer: "Your front...and your back, but mostly your front (as he gestures to my boobs) What I wanted to hear:  "The same thing I find sexy now, everything, you really haven't changed." Ok, now I know that is a stretch, but its what I wanted, NEEDED to hear today, a day I feel chubby.
Frustrated, I said, ok and he left.
What I know about Don is that he is a bit guarded. He had a girlfriend in college who was kind of like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, but this girl didn't boil a rabbit, she boiled Don's balls, (metaphorically of course).
And I suppose I have also contributed to his fear. When we first started dating I flirted by asked him, What kind of girl do you think is sexy?. His answer: Beyonce...or Asian girls.  What I wanted to hear: "An athletic girl with blond hair and brown eyes". NOT something that I can't even compete with because a) I'm not black and b) I'm not Asian. From now until the end of his life he will always get a dirty look or snide remark from me when ever Beyonce or an attractive Asian is on tv.
What I fail to recognize is that to him, asking me to be his wife, and wanting me to be the mother of his children and wanting to grow old with me is more than enough assurance that I am,  and always be his number one girl. But maybe someday in the next 60 years he will have the ability to say the answer I want to hear, even if it is "You are better looking at 95, then you were at 20" or better yet, maybe I will learn to stop asking those questions.

Spring Break at a Retirement Community

Back in the day I can recall watching MTV Spring Break from the comfort of my living room. Fantasizing that some day, when I could get away from my parents, I too will enjoy the thrill of a shake your booty contest on Daytona Beach.  Fast forward 20 years later and you will find me visiting THEM on my Spring Break and not at a hip Spring Break destination, but at their home which is located in a retirement community in Southern Arizona.  So south, that you even get to pass through a border patrol station... which I found to be exhilarating. And that was just the beginning of my thrills.
When contemplating where to go for Spring Break with four kids under 9 I wouldn't dare go anywhere where there wasn't additional (willing) adult support, and where the room and meals are free, so that pretty much narrows it down to one place, my parents snow bird house.
The 4 hour plane ride was actually pretty easy.... After we were settled. We brought along the car seat for Oscar and after Don broke a sweat fastening it with the child in it and arranging everyone with their backpacks, gum, seabands, drinks, etc. etc. on a packed flight, the flight attendant told us that he couldn't sit there because it was 2 rows from an exit row. Seriously? So we had to play musical chairs which resulted in a lot of climbing over seats, passing children like they were hot and my butt crack showing.  Of course there was the added pressure that the plane was waiting on us to take off and if looks could kill we would have all been dead.  We had 3 seats together and 2 seats together which left one family member displaced. Although Don had his eye on that lucky seat, the old man in the seat that was sandwiched between two nintendo playing kids offered to move. Go figure?  Now we were in our cluster.
The boys did great. I am an anxious flyer and I kept my eye on a shifty guy,  who I was convinced was a terrorist, that is, when I wasn't taking someone to the bathroom. Parker joined the mile high club, well, his version of it. Somewhere they heard that term and when he asked me what it was I told him it was when someone pooped on a plane.   He actually joined in three times. 
Once we arrived we settled in easily. Within minutes we were at the pool. They have "family time" which translates to we don't want to be around screaming, splashing kids from 11-1 and 4-6. Senior nap and dinner time respectively.
I forgot how much I love Arizona. I attending the UofA my freshman and sophomore years of college. Not only does it represent my first experience away from home, but it also is the embodiment of rustic beauty. I love it there and if it weren't so darn hot in the summer I swear I would move there.  At least I know that when I turn 65 I will be eligible to live in my parents house.
Besides my children, I was the youngest human in a ten mile radius. Everywhere I went there were old people. It was as if my pace was more like a Porsche and everyone else was a Prius.   There is a golf cart lane on the main drag, and a Jazzy parking station at the grocery store.  After adjusting to the age gap I started to notice a alarming trend.  Most everyone I came into contact with was happy.  At the grocery store that I purchased margarita mix (it is Spring Break after all)  the check out guy was wearing a tie, and happily scanning my purchases. He called me Mrs.   The bagger was equally polite.  I saw couples shopping together.
Granted, most couples that I did see together were bickering. Well, mostly the women where nagging their husband who appeared to be ignoring them. Then there was the lonely man who sat alone drinking his coffee at the grocery store Starbucks every morning who would have loved to have his wife there to bicker with  but he seemed content.  I should have sat down with him just for a moment but my fast pace didn't allow for that.    I overheard some conversations, mostly nostalgia for the past. But being there I felt like I was in the past, and to be honest it was kind of nice.
I didn't see cell phones, laptops or god forbid ipods. I did however see a walkman with a cassette player.
I saw older people literally enjoying every bit of the daylight. Biking, walking, hiking, playing tennis.   I had a sick realization about my generation.  Most of us live with instant gratification, when we want something we get it even if we can't afford it. This huge retirement community may be vacant in 30 years because we are so in debt that we can't begin to think of retirement.
While my generation struggles to find their purpose in life, these people have already figured it out. While some of us search for meaning, we are missing out on the simple pleasure of life, which may be our only purpose after all.  These people know and accept that they are not going to live forever and they want to get the most out of it while they can.  I don't know if I can say I have the foresight of that realization. That is why most of them don't communicate via computer, they communicate in person. Well, besides computers scaring the crap out of them.
For my son's and my birthday my parents invited two couples over to celebrate. They arrived on time, no need to be fashionably late.   We sat around the table long after cake was served and laughed.  I heard a lot of jokes, some of them funny, some of them not, most of them puns and not one complaint. And it was an eclectic bunch, who had lived through some pretty tough things, such as war, and a lot of death, but you wouldn't know it by the way they were laughing.
It was a great way to bring in my 35th year.
There was an unspoken camaraderie that I cannot imagine having with people who have opposite views. At the pool one day a man yelled over to another, "Good Afternoon Hippie", and the other responded "Hey, you dumb carpetbagger, I didn't see you at breakfast today!" Clearly opposing views on politics, but they still enjoy each others company. No fist fight followed. In fact, they played a game of chicken with their grandchildren on their shoulders. I watched these old guys laughing hysterically like they were 12.  And I realized, I should enjoy my own kids like that... and Don needs to work out more because these old guys were buff.
In fact, there were not many signs of stress at all, which was in sharp contrast to me because I checked my phone every other minute to see what email I was missing from my work, which I was suppose to be on vacation from.
After a day or two I decompressed a bit and I stopped checking my messages and spent little or no time on the computer. Ok, to be honest the main reason for that was that my Dad's computer was so slow that you would have thought it was dial up. They actually start their computer, do a load of laundry and wait for it to "boot up", that slow. I didn't have the patience.
Now that I am back and fully on line again, I find myself reflecting on how much fun I had when my high speed world went dial up for a week. It gave me a new enlightening perspective on aging.  If I am lucky and find myself laughing with friends, nagging my husband and enjoying the sun when I am 74 then I have a lot to look forward too. But,for the time being I may slow down and look around too.

Lets Talk About Sex.... Baby.

Since having a baby I have been dreading the sex question. The where do babies come from question. Parker has been with us through three pregnancies. He has seen my belly grow and contract each time. Never did he ask how the baby got there. In fact, when he started asking about sex it had nothing to do with babies and had everything to do with pop music.
Maybe Kevin Bacon's girlfriend's dad in Footloose was right. Dancing causing problems and so does that evil pop music.  Parker was singing I'm sexy and I know it. After explaining that kids can't and should never be sexy, he thought it was a cuss word which made it even more appealing.  The other night out of no where he asked me what the S.E.X was.
 I told him to wait and I would tell him in a minute. I folded socks and told his younger brother to go downstairs.  When Jack did, I sat on the bed and and had a brain block. I said sex is a grown up thing and you should respect yourself. It didn't even make sense to me. He was looking at me with big brown eyes and I told him to ask his daddy.  I pushed Parker out of the way and rushed downstairs and told Don I had completely screwed that one up and that it was his turn. After Parker picked himself up he came down to Don and said "Daddy what is the sex?"
 He told Parker that he couldn't explain it in 15 minutes and it was his bed time and he would tell him later.  Another road block for Parker. Frustrated, he left saying "why won't anyone tell me what the sex is!" I felt bad. Wasn't it suppose to be the other way around? We were suppose to approach him?
Now I'm being pursued and harassed by my own son to tell him something that I don't where to begin. I want to be sure that he knows he needs to love and respect the girl, and that no means no etc. etc. But he is just wanting to know what the big deal is. How do I weave in all of that for a 9 year old?
We agreed that we would tell him Friday night. I would have time to get a book to use as a visual because I sure as hell wasn't going to draw pictures or even worse google it.
 I went to the bookstore and searched until I found a little tiny section with books with titles like. "Whats the big secret?" and "A boys guide to his body" or "What is going on down there?" I grabbed one that I thought had nice pictures. As I was standing in line I started to flip through it and to my horror I opened up right to the page about wet dreams. I screamed inside. WHAT? no no no no no no no.  So back I went to the tiny section and chose a more  age appropriate book. I brought it home and showed it to Don.  I know how Don's parents educated them about sex. His Dad, (not his mom I might add) a Colonel in the Army sat his brother and him down one night and told them the ins and outs (no pun intended) and that they need to be careful, and if they knew what a condom was. That is all good and great but the problem was they were 16 and 17. A little too late there pops.  My situation was a bit more horrific. *graphic language warning*
I was in 3rd grade and Sam, a little boy in my class, and I were hanging upside down on the jungle gym. Some how the conversation led him to tell me to suck his dick.  I had no clue what he was talking about, but I did like to suck on suckers, and if dick was a sucker than SURE!
Later in the car I asked my mom what it meant to suck a dick.  I believe she slammed on the breaks and protected me with the arm seat belt. We made a sharp turn into a McDonald's parking lot where she gave me the technical details which I found completely revolting and she assured me that I wouldn't need to worry about it because sex was only when you are married.  So there are the two backgrounds of the two parents who are about to explain sex to our son. We decided to invite our 7 year old into the conversation just for the heck of it.  We called them up from downstairs and said we had a book. Parker was excited. Finally he was going to find out what sex was. I decided now was a good time to get a glass of wine.  As Don began to talk about girl parts and boy parts I couldn't stop giggling. When I heard my son say, "I don't get what a vulva is" I lost it and was in full on church giggles. Parker was watching me like a hawk. Kids read their parents expressions when they need reassurance. Much like I watch flight attendants on a plane. If they look freaked out than the plane must be going down.  By the time we got to rubbing certain areas is called masturbation Parker decided he needed to get a drink too.  Fin was just taking it all in like it was a bedtime story. Don was a pro, he was teaching them just like he taught every other kid math every day. But if I were in his class I would have been in the hall by now. He kept giving me dirty looks as if to say "grow up". I couldn't help it! I was a giggling mess. We finally got to the nitty gritty and Parker was shocked to find out that the actual purpose of sex was to have babies..not so "sexy" anymore huh? Followed by horror and disgust. "That is SO disgusting!" "Do I have to do that?" That is where I finally spoke up and said a confident "NO!" He then asked if teenagers do that. We said yes, but they shouldn't unless they want a baby. Parker then asked if we did that. "Well, how do you think you got here?"  Don said. He looked at us as if we had the plague. That was it. The book was over.
We explained that this was a private matter that we talk about in our home and not with our friends.  I told them if they ever had a question to come to me (but I didn't mean it.)  Think about it. I have 4 boys who will all be teenagers at the same time. Add Don into the mix and our house will probably be grand jack off central, I shutter at the thought.
The next day Parker was playing outside for 10 minutes when he came in and said "I told Joey about our book"  I angrily asked him if he forgot about the word PRIVATE meant.  Don over heard the conversation and was equally upset.  " You need to go tell his mom." Why me? I couldn't even speak during the dissertation, how am I going to go tell a mom that my 9 year old told her 7 year old about sex?  Fine.
I  casually walked over and knocked on the door. She answered. Damn it. I told her that Parker had explained the birds and the bees to her son. She just stared at me. I then thought that was a cue to give her the sex talk. "We told him about the penis and the vagina..." She interrupted me and said that she was fine with it, and that it was a good time to bring it up. Geez. She is much cooler than I was.
I find it odd that my son now knows where babies come from but still believes in Santa. I was tempted to just put it all out on the table, the Easter bunny, tooth fairy, elf on the shelf..but I decided that can wait, he has enough to think about.

Running out of Coffee in the morning is a warning sign...

  I must like living in the fast (carpool) lane. If my plate was paper it would have collapsed with all the things I pile on it. When we booked a trip to Arizona last Fall, I thought I had enough time to get ready. I don't think 9 months could get anyone ready to fly with 4 little boys.  Back then, we didn't have a puppy. Now we are boarding 2 dogs but need to pay double (obviously) but also because Wally can't be exposed to other dogs because he has not had his final immunizations.  "I didn't plan on when he was going to be born" I explained to Don.   But just think, in a week I will be baking myself in the sun in my parents retirement community where the median age is 73. Ahh this is the life.
The new puppy is only one more thing to add to my morning and makes me about 5 minutes later than usual. Five minutes that grants my boss the satisfaction of scowling at his watch when I walk in.  I'm not a air traffic controller, I work in publicity, and last time I checked, there wasn't a life or death situation going on prior to 9 a.m. And its nothing new, I have come into work every day at the same time. What he doesn't realize (even after 5 years) that I am not just hitting the snooze button.  For the record, I have NEVER hit the snooze button.
Today the odds seemed to be stacked against me.  At 4:55 a.m. my alarm went off and I took my dogs out, I hope my neighbors never decide to gaze over the fence at this time, because if they did they would see me shivering in a tank top, underwear and slippers.
I then return inside to put on my workout clothes that I laid out the night before, apparently forgetting that I hadn't shaved my legs in a week. Oh well, if someone at that gym is that close to me to notice than maybe they will learn to give me my space next time.
There is a woman at the gym who I have declared as my archenemy. Some how everyday she pulls out in front of me, drives too slow, backs into her parking space (a huge pet peeve of mine) causing me to have to wait.  When we actually get into the gym she has decided to hang out on all the machines I want and by the time I am done working out I walk into the locker room right when her naked moon is rising. Good for her for being at the gym, but if my butt looks anything like that when I am 45 I may look into butt implants. Where did it go?
By the time I arrive home,  Don is up and he has attempted to wake up the boys .  I am the only morning person in my family and this is very apparent.  I walk in to see only a peacock of hair sticking up over the couch. Fin went to bed with his hair wet again and even a hose wouldn't bring it down. I decide to let it go.  A morning in our house isn't complete unless there is an argument. This morning Finegan was upset that I packed him a sack lunch in a sack. They are going on a field trip, and I had instructions to do so, but he insists that he can bring his lunch box.  Parker is getting attacked by Wally. After reciting our daily breakfast menu Parker said he doesn't know what there is to eat.  Its not hard kid, its the same thing ever day, and I make the executive decision for him to get it himself.  Jack is screaming "Fin called me a tattle tail!" Fin called me a tattle tail!",  he is incriminating himself, but he doesn't realize this.
After about 10 minutes I instruct everyone to get upstairs and brush their teeth. Parker is dumbfounded with this request because he hasn't eaten breakfast yet. I wonder what in the hell he has been doing for past 10 minutes? Don had a  b.s school corporation meeting so the older two take the bus. I send them out at 7:25 a.m. 5 min. prior to the buses arrival. When they are gone I am left to get myself and the younger two ready. Jack has been preoccupied with making movies of himself on imovie. I will deal with his narcissism later.
Oscar is still sleeping and not thrilled to get up.  I get him dressed and put on his new Tom's shoes I got him. They are very cute with little crossbones all over.   He is saying nana on repeat because he only has been eating bananas lately.
I get myself ready..sort of. If I had one wish I would wish for a stylist and a hair dresser at my house every day. My clothes would be laid out and there would be a guy (possibly a Ryan Reynolds look alike) there waiting to do my hair. Because I don't have this, I am forced to wear what I think is kind of cute based on a vague memory of an outfit I saw on Pinterest and my hair is going to be in a knot on top of my head.  Or.. a chignon, yeah that's it.
I realize that Wally has run by me and this can only mean he has something he shouldn't. Oh look, its Oscar's new shoe.  I find Oscar and put it back on.
At 8:15 the two older ones saunter into the house. Wait, shouldn't they be on a bus to school? Just then a neighbor calls and tells me the bus never showed up. I can't tell you how much confidence this gives me with our local school system. Our neighbor offers to take the boys if he had room in his car but....he doesn't, so I offer to take his girls.  Why not, I have a minivan after all. Now I have 6 kids in my house.
For a brief moment I glanced in the review mirror, is that Michelle Dugger I see in my reflection? Finally I'm in the car with my 20 kids securely fastened. At this point I would reach down to have my first sip of coffee, but today we ran out, that should have been my first sign.  I look back, Oscar's shoe is missing again, I look to the garage and see that I have run it over. Why did these shoes cost so much if they can't stay on his feet! I don't think I can return a run over, chewed on shoe now. I drop the neighborhood off at school first, Bye  Jedidiah, John, Jordan, Jerusalem etc..( that is a Dugger reference in case you missed it).
I drop the baby off second, make very small chit chat with our daycare lady so I don't seem rude, but as I'm leaving she tells me I have a fuzzy on my butt. What? It turns out it isn't a fuzzy, its a half chewed on button (damn puppy) and she tells me she can't let me go to work like that, so she vanishes to the house for 20 min. to find scissors to cut the button off my butt.  A nice image for the kids.
I'm on my home stretch and I have to drop off Jack. We arrive to his school and the teacher says "oh mommy looks tired" First of all, I hate it when someone other than my child calls me mommy. Secondly, that is not a compliment.  I explain that I'm just not in the mood to go to work today. She explains that she isn't either. WAIT. She teaches MY son, what do you mean you don't want to be there? It is a privilege! I'm almost gone when another mom comes in and explains that she is going on the field trip. Oh crap. I forgot he is going to the same field trip place Finegan is. How could I forget this? They fight like crazy but somehow can't wait to see each other on a field trip. I forgot a sack lunch, well, I have a granola bar, that should work.  Jack asks me why I can't go on the trip, I explain I have to work, I don't get into the fact that his daddy is a teacher and makes a ridiculous salary compared to the professors I work for, but we can save that for his bedtime story.  The teacher comes to my defense and says " Mommy needs to go to work" to which he says " but you can look at youtube at home later" In his 4 year old mind that is what I do all day at work. What he fails to recognize is that I also look at facebook and pinterest and on occasion yahoo too.
I leave and I find some solace in my walk from the parking lot to my office. That is until I see a nun and carrying a lunch bag that looks identical to the one that I am missing. Apparently when she found Jesus she found my lunch bag too. I consider it a gift from me to her, she doesn't make money after all and whatever she does make she gives to the church, so in away I too am giving to the church. For a brief moment I wonder why I didn't become a nun and briefly fantasize that if I was a nun my style or shaving my legs would not be an issue.
I decide that I'm late anyway so I will stop in the campus Starbucks quickly. The line is wrapped around the hall. I make the executive decision that I don't care and I will wait.  I stand in a line of texting drones.  While passing the pastry case I realize that I haven't had breakfast, so I'm going to treat myself to a big ass muffin. I sacraficed my granola lunch/breakfast away to my son so I'm going to splurge.When I finally order my non-fat triple shot latte I realize I have forgotten my wallet.  At this point I want to ask God why has he forsaken me.
I literally get teary eyed and ask the Starbucks girl if I can please please pay her tomorrow. I am a desperate mother who is starving and caffeine deprived. She pauses. I'm about to go into full on sobbing when she agrees. She doesn't realize this, but she just may have just saved my life.
By that time I have arrived at my office door to see my boss looking at his watch. I want to explain myself, but before I can say anything, I realize that my muffin is far more important.
The lesson learned is if you run out of coffee first thing int he morning it can only mean one thing, go back to bed.  And with that I tapped into my inner Michelle Dugger and waddled on into my office.

The Day I Became a Mom

 It was nine years ago that I became a mom. I was 25.  When Don and I found out we were pregnant it wasn't the joyful exuberant jubilation you see in the movies. We had been married for a little over a year and wanted this, but it just seemed really real, and very odd. I instantly started driving more carefully. Telling our parents was hard too because now it was evident that we were having sex.  I had a great pregnancy. I didn't eat whatever I wanted, but my downfall was Giant Roast Beef Sandwiches from Arby's, (daily) which is kind of weird considering that I didn't eat meat.  We knew he was a boy and we named him Parker, which was Don's grandmother's maiden name.  We were going to name the baby Parker if it was a boy or girl, so that was pretty easy.  Thankfully he was a boy, because as a friend pointed out, it is very close to Porker, and if the girl was heavy set, it may be a problem.
I took Lamaze class and planned for a natural drug free birth. We had been given the book Baby Wise which was the closest thing to an owners manual I can think of. I strongly recommend it. Don studied that book like it was our baby bible. By the time I had the baby, HE was showing me how to breastfeed.
My due date came an went and I tried everything to make this baby come out. I ate spicy food, walked, you name it and nothing helped until the doctor "stirred things up a bit", his words not mine.
Soon the contractions started coming. It was the worst pain I had ever felt. I tried every position I learned in Lamaze within 20 seconds and nothing worked. I was bent over a medicine ball and grew more and more annoyed with Don's need to scream out how far apart my contractions were.  I had imagined getting a little beautified before going to the hospital, maybe put on a little make up for the glowing after shot of the baby and me. In actuality, I didn't bother to put a brush to my hair.  After putting on my gown, which was like asking me to climb mount Everest, I laid down in the bed and didn't want to move.  By the time they checked me I was 3 pathetic centimeters. Seriously? I thought I was at 12.  It was at this point when I called Don over to me and asked him to lean in close. It was then that I apologized.  " I'm sorry that I am leaving you like this. I love you, raise Parker well"  He just looked at me, not sure to get a nurse or comfort me. I continued " this is it, I see the light, I'm dying"  And I swear to this day that I believed it, felt it and WANTED it. This birth was going to kill me.
I had made my peace with the world.  Finally the anesthesiologist appeared.  Any desire to go natural had dissipated and all I wanted was to be put out of my misery. Once that huge needle administered a high better than LSD I was cool. In fact a little too cool.  I couldn't feel anything and was even giggling, then sleeping, then giggling again. Against the nurses orders Don was feeding me ice chips.  Note* listen to your nurse, she knows what she is talking about.
When it was time to push I alternated vomiting with pushing thanks to the ice chips.
The doctor finally arrived along with a resident. We are always the couple who get the doctor in training.  Don always says " we are all about education" I say that in my manly Don mimicking voice which he despises.   Whatever, invite the entire hospital in here to look at my vagina.  The doctor said that my cervix had swelled to mass proportions and he couldn't get the baby out and we needed to have a c-section.  He had to deliver another baby and would be back to do the surgery.  To be honest, I was kind of relieved. The thought of pushing this baby, who more than likely had a huge noggin out of my body scared me.
By the time the doctor returned the swelling had gone down enough to push my cervix aside and vacuum our son out of my body. " PUSH WITH YOUR BUTT NOT YOUR FACE!" the doctor screamed. I felt like a rock star everyone was chanting my name, telling me I was great and finally after 10 minutes I gave the final push to become a mother.  The resident almost dropped Parker, but the doctor caught him. His cord was around his neck, Don was cautiously watching. Even after 22 hours, it all happened so fast. I was suddenly pumped, the adrenalin was electric. Finally Parker was screaming and placed on my body.  There are no words to describe that feeling. Within seconds my entire purpose had changed.  I was so glad I didn't die.
Finally I was holding the concept of a baby that I had been dreaming about for months and he looked nothing like I had expected.  More beautiful than words. He had a head full of jet black hair, chubby cheeks and a dimple right in the middle of his chin.  Whatever was going on around me or to me was unimportant.  I was alone with Parker in the world for a moment when I noticed Don. He took Parker from my arms and held him up to his face. Don started to cry and told Parker, " you are my best friend" I don't know why he said it and he doesn't know either, but it is what it is.

I didn't sleep for the next 24 hours. I was just too excited.  I wish I could have told myself to get over it because when we went home, the lack of sleep would take its toll on me.  On the first night we were all sitting on the kitchen floor at who knows what time in the morning crying. Each one of us.  Me wondering who thought  I could ever be a mom. Don wondering why the hospital let us take a baby with 0 knowledge on what to do with him when we got home and Parker crying because he had gas...but we didn't realize that.
I knew that this day had been a major game changer. Everything I thought I knew, I didn't.  In a single moment my purpose was clear and that was that my purpose was no longer important in comparison to his.

Graduating from Mommy to Mom.

My poetic mind always has grand ideas of how things should go.  For example, when I walked down the aisle I imaged everyone gazing at me as I beautifully floated along like a cloud, in actuality I walked so slow they had to play the trumpet voluntary twice and had I known I would be ugly crying all over my veil, I would have stuffed a tissue in my strapless gown that I spent the entire night pulling up.
When I brought my third son home from the hospital I imagined his older siblings rushing to see him with open arms. Instead I walked into a complete meltdown over a bowl of goldfish which resulted in me directing an F-bomb at my mother-in-law and staying in my room for 2 days. Crying that I could never bring him home for the first time ever again.
This trend continued when we decided to surprise the boys with a new puppy.  The three older ones were at a basketball game, we took Oscar with us to pick up the puppy in the country.  As soon as we pulled out of the ATM ( cash only breeder) Oscar puked. We thought it may be a fluke, like he choked on milk or something. Unlikely and Wrong.  It happened again and he Don had to surrender his sweatshirt for the 15 min. ride. A shirtless husband is nice, in the right circumstances and this was not one of them.  I opened the window to air out the van as we continued our pursuit to puppy ville. When we got home I placed the puppy in a box and the boys were so excited and and asked if we could keep him and if we could name him Paul. Yes and No!  After the 10 minute excitement dissipated, I was left alone in the room with a puppy and a baby who smelled like puke.
Oscar's eruption was the Earth quake before the tsunami of vomit hit our house. Within 48 hours 3 of us would experience it. At one point I had a husband hugging a toilet in one room, a baby being held over the kitchen sink and a new puppy crying for dear life for its mother. Not exactly the picture I had in my mind...
We survived the week and last night I was told (at dinner) that there was a third grade skating party at 5:30 which was in 20 min. that Parker HAD to go to or he would apparently, die. I had been home from work for less than a half hour, but its not like I had anything else I could possibly want to do.
As we held hands walking into the rink my first born and I crossed an invisible line that I fear we can never return back.  He pulled his hand away and asked me to not talk to him in front of his friends. He called me Mom, which was honestly the first time he didn't refer to me as Mommy. It was as if we were suspending the disbelief that he, being 8 years old drove himself there.  What a sham, they all rode there and most of them in a booster seat.   I agreed however and placed myself on the carpeted cube.  Soon someone needed my help, I wasn't sure who because I was suppose to act like I didn't know him. So this stranger who I gave birth to needed my help tying his skates. Skates he has never worn or attempted to skate with..ever.  I happily tied his skates (which he had to change because he got the wrong size because he doesn't shop for his shoes). He stood up, took a couple of strides and did a comical fall which resulted with him flat on his back. This fall would have earned us $100,000 on America's Funniest Home Videos.  I know you are not suppose to laugh at your children, but I could not hold this in. I desperately tried to, which only resulted in an outburst of HA!  I quickly turned and walked away to the dismay of another mom who had a cell phone on her belt which was proudly displayed thanks to her tucked in turtle neck.   I knew he wasn't hurt, so what is wrong with letting him bite the dust once in awhile?
One of my favorite past times as a pre-teen was to go to the roller rink.  It was cool. But nothing can jade a memory than seeing it as an adult.  How are these places legal? All these dark carpeted corners, in the dark, its a pedophiles playground.  I watched as kids skated around and remembered how I could do the speed criss crossy thing all while listening to L' Trimm. (In case you have forgotten, they sang the 88 hit called Cars that go boom from their GRAB IT! album.)
Now I watched my son cling to the wall mouthing the words to LMAFO's sexy and I know it. First of all, how does he know that song and secondly, SEXY? Just the previous day I overheard him tell Wally (the new puppy) that he was sexy. We may need to review appropriate adjectives soon.
After the lap that likely took an entire song he returned to me to spew hatred towards the sport of roller skating. How lame it was and how he needed a roller walker.  I'm embarrassing, but rolling around with a roller walker isn't? Fine. I paid $3 to rent this lame piece of plastic and he confidently went back to the stampede of roller skaters.  With in three seconds he has falle, this time, forward and flipped over the walker landing on his head...again, hold back the laughter.
After another song he returned and said he hated the roller walker and wanted a hot dog.  There was no way I was going to let him eat at this place. How do they even have a food permit? And I paid 3 hard earned dollars (which could have paid for a portion of my latte) for that walker and not to mention 2 hours of my life and he was going out for another 3 songs.  Period. He stormed off, or he attempted to with choppy baby steps back to the rink.
I watched as little girls skated by and shook their hips with more lucidity than I ever have, and come to think of it some of their chests were more than I will ever have too.
How did I not notice how bored my parents were at all of my functions? I looked around and every parent had a blank stare as if we had all been hypnotized by the disco ball.  Finally it was time to go.  As we got into the car to ride home I asked him if he had fun.  "No".  So I realize that he had a different idea of how things were to go, and it didn't involve him lying flat on the floor instead of being a speed racer.   He did learn a lesson and that is that he have no desire to step foot in a roller rink again, and by all accounts, I couldn't be happier.  When we got home he said, "Thanks Mommy", and with that I was reassured that I hadn't lost my title as Mommy, at least not quite yet.

When Right Brain Parenting Goes Wrong

Image credit: http://www.andrewkeir.com/creative-collection/right-left-brain-mercedes-all-nothing/

There is no doubt that I was born right brained. Each of my parents are right brained, my brother is right brained, my sister...well, she is the left brained logical-pants of the family.  It has taken me almost 34 years to accept this about myself. It seems that being artistic was considered second to being able to solve a mathematical equation.  My parents sent me to a private school that boasted their emphasis on fine arts.  This may have been true in comparison to other schools, but in all actuality it was highly competitive in the academic area too. I believe that is where I grew to believe I was stupid. I received praise for my paintings, acting and writing, but that was not enough to hide my mediocre (at best) grades in math and science.  My Dad's father was a lawyer, his father was a judge and the list of intellectuals goes higher and higher on the family tree. My dad is a brilliant artist, my earliest memories of his ability were his excitement to design my birthday invitations.  Needless to say, he did not become a lawyer to his father's chagrin. Instead, he majored in industrial design and used his talent to create a very successful business that provided for our family and still does.
My parents had the best intentions. They finished college, (my mom majored in dance), so it was not an option for me not to. Even though I had to take Algebra II three times,  I'm glad I stuck it out. Being right brained can make you less appealing to traditional career paths.  Accounting was not an option so I majored in theater.  I made it through my general classes and tried to make them as creative as possible. My brain processes information in colors, sounds and mostly in story telling. I create back stories for everything as a way to make sense of things.  I am more interested in where the coffee bean grew, how the logo was created, rather than how Jerry Baldwin grew a .75 cup of coffee into a billion dollar business called Starbucks.
I am grateful to my parents for not showing a bit of concern when my intellectual pursuits of science never surfaced.  It was what I did in art class that interested them more.  In high school my dad actually called a conference with the art teacher to discuss my progression and her rigid approach to impressionistic painting that  he believed stifled my personal expression. I'm sure he will go down as the first and only person to call a conference with an art teacher in high school.  Even their opposition couldn't shake the underlining fact I had already convinced myself was true..I was dumb.
I have been trying to prove otherwise ever since. In a society that thinks that artsy people are a bit flighty it has been tough. If you watch American Idol, you will see the majority of people desperate for fame, not following their true selves. A bad example of artistic types. Where I struggle most is the places that I have worked. Like a magnet I seem to gravitate towards bosses that make it a sport to berate my ideas and scoff at my knowledge.  I am surrounded by people who have excelled, even identify themselves by how many degrees they have. I swallow those hurtful notions daily and give thanks that I have a career that provides for my family and I have found  extra curricular creative outlets to keep my sanity, but again its considered a hobby if I tell people I paint or write to center me when my mind catches a conventional virus.
Recently, history repeated itself. My son's pre-school teacher took me aside and expressed her concern that Jack's drawings were of the violent nature. Even accusing him of drawing a friend nailed to a cross. I won't go into the details that he isn't exposed to crucifixes or that his artistic skills would justify a crayon drawing with such meticulous detail.
What surprised me most was the way I handled it, I immediately sided with her. 
I took him to the car and scolded him for drawing inappropriate things. I had taken something he was proud of and made it into a subject of shame.  Within minutes of seeing tears streaming down his face I realized what I had done and tried to fight back the tears I felt.  I went back into the school and asked the teacher for the drawings, she didn't have them. She had thrown them away!  I apologized to Jack for my reaction and assured him that his art was beautiful. This is where right brained parenting waters get a bit murky.  I was protecting him from the struggles I went through. Who am I, or anyone for that matter, to censor a 4 year olds attempt to express himself through art? This is where I could learn a lesson from my parents.  How were they so confident and so proud of a child that excelled in everything that was considered an elective or my favorite, "blow off" classes?  I still haven't found the answer to that. When Jack's teacher was talking to me it was as if I stepped back in time. I was the soprano in an opera where the chorus surrounded me, singing " Your stupid! You can't parent and Your Stupid, Stupid Stupid!" (In every opera the chorus repeats itself over and over again in case you were wondering.) And my bad parenting was center stage for everyone's entertainment.
How selfish to have made it about me.  It was as if my chorus woke me up. I look at Jack and I am in awe of his painting, his acting and his story telling, sounds familiar doesn't it?  He is perfect. The first thing the next day, I called the director of school and expressed my anger and I didn't back down until I received confirmation that this would not happen again, especially to one of my boys.
Sometimes these incidents shake you awake and you take a birds eye look at your life.  I realize that my oldest son is also a right brainer and is at a magnet school for math and science. He would do so much better at a Montessori school, as I would have, maybe math and science would have made sense to me and maybe it could make sense to him.  My second son is so left brained it makes mine cramp. I am in awe of his precise and rational intelligence.  The baby hasn't declared his side preference yet. But if you asked me who was smarter,  Fin or Parker I would say they are equal, but their test scores and traditional ways to measure it may not be a reflection of that. Even more so, their future career pursuits.  What I can hope for them is that future creative gentleman will be looked at as an asset when its time for them to enter the work force. Looking to their grandpa for inspiration.  Although being artsy has limited me in some areas, it has allowed me to see that being a mom is the most colorful experience one could have and parenting is anything but black and white.

What to do with this empty womb?

Part of my job is to set up and take down concerts and recitals. I'm usually the first one in and the last one out. What I notice at the end of a really successful recital after everyone has left, that there is an eerie feeling that their energy is still there in the auditorium.  I can usually hear the performers greeting people in the hall and their voices trail off, but the excitement on the stage is still there, its warm and palpable.  I can't explain it, but when I turn off the lights it almost feels like I'm leaving someone in the dark and I always double check but nobody is there.

I recently went for my annual gyno check up. Something I think every women dreads. I used to love to see my doctor when I was pregnant, but by the last appointment I was ready to take a long vacation from him and that office.  Waiting, waiting some more, small talk, exam. This appointment I noticed he spent a little more time then usual on the exam. I have known this man for over 10 years and he has delivered 2 of my sons. I have been able to detect a problem by the expression on his face. What doctors don't realize is that we watch their every nuance.  He said he believed that I had fibroids and that he needed me to get an ultra sound. Ugh. Another appointment. He gave me the best and worst case scenario. Worst being a hysterectomy. Wait. What? Isn't that something that women get when they are really really old? He explained that I was late in my child bearing years. Again, what? I'm 34!  So we said our goodbyes and I set the appointment. I can't explain it exactly but I have a deep love for this man.  How can I not? He was like the UPS man delivering my most prized possessions and he didn't damage the goods.  I will always have respect for him.
The next day I went in to the ultra sound. The tech was the same, the room had changed, but it had all the same things in it, a march of dimes calendar on the wall. Photos of the tech's daughters. I feel like I have watched them grow, just by their photos.  I was nervous.  I saw the daddy chair there, where Don used to sit and pretend to know what we were looking at.  He once mistakenly said he saw the babies cute face when it was, in all actuality, his butt.  The doctor and tech got quite a chuckle from that and Don never commented publicly about an ultra sound ever again.
When the images of my insides were on the screen I couldn't help but feel a bit sad.  It was so dark, so vast and so empty.  A womb with out a tenant.  She scanned over the right ovary and explained that the dark spots were eggs.  I thought about how they were eggs that would never get the chance to be little babies.  I know I sound very doom and gloom and perhaps a bit lofty and dramatic but I am just being honest.   She did indeed find fibroids, but by this time, I had gone to a painful place in my mind that I was trying to get out of.
I was 14 weeks pregnant. I had been in 2 weeks prior for an appointment and heard the baby's heartbeat.   Don never came with me to the early appointments, especially being that this was going to be our fourth baby.  As the doctor tried to get a heart beat he couldn't hear it. He explained that it was early and that he was going to do an ultra sound just to check things out. I wanted to remind him that we had already heard the heartbeat, but I always loved getting sonograms so I didn't speak up.  I went into the familiar room, with the same tech and watched the monitor as she found the sac, the uterus and the baby.  Having 3 boys prior to this I couldn't seem to see the little flicker of light which was the heart beat. I immediately looked at her. Was something wrong with the machine?  I could tell she was avoiding eye contact with me. She left the room. I sat there looking at this little peanut image without a heartbeat.  The doctor came in and told me that the fetus had died and that I had a spontaneous abortion.  It wasn't my normal doctor and I felt like he was being cold.  First of all, my definition of abortion and his were completely different. And secondly what did he mean? The baby (not fetus) is right there. I wanted to grab the ultra sound machine, press it on my belly and try and save it, or anything but just sitting there!  I asked if there was anything we could do. He said, he was sorry and told me what to expect in the next couple of days, bleeding, cramping... I had already tuned him out.
I went home and collapsed. The only people that even knew I was pregnant were Don and my mom.  I called Don and told him the news, but he couldn't come home so I had to wait. I sat there and thought, there is a baby in here, maybe they are wrong?  A few days went by, I still hadn't bled, at least not on the outside. On the inside I was devastated.  We told the boys that I was sick and that I had to stay in bed. The only truth to that was that I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. Miscarriages are the loss of the future you had for a child.  I wanted to be alone with the baby inside of me.  Finally I had to have a D&C, I couldn't stand waiting for it to happen naturally and I was afraid of what I might see.  I woke up from the surgery feeling vacated.   Thankfully,  at this point I thought it was a fluke and I didn't know I would go through this again six month later. After that I didn't have the hope that eventually a baby would be able to grow healthy in there again.
All of this consumed my mind as I sat looking at this place that all four of my boys, plus 2 others had occupied. As I looked at my insides I felt nostalgic, like a place that you visit and it just makes you happy for the memories.
I'm sure the tech didn't realize that she was the same one who did that awful ultra sound or that I had gone to that dark place just then.  Memories are weird.  I used to love them in acting class when I could access all the pain and use it for a scene. Although the "pain" I would revisit back then didn't hold a candle to pain like this.
As I left I tried to pull myself together. I thought about the auditorium that I work in,  that every time I leave the empty place, it still has an alive energy. I would like to think that maybe that is the case in my womb too. Although it may be empty, it has the energy of 6 little souls, energy that I have the privilege to carry around with me every day knowing it will not be going anywhere. 

Yes, I would like a non-fat mommy, extra hot.

Lately I have been asked how I stay in shape.  I assume that the question arises because as one can imagine, I don't have a lot of time. It could also be because I have had four babies in 8 years, work full time, and some how manage a house ( kind of).
I should let you know that I do NOT have a degree in nutrition or exercise science. I don't have a story about how I lost 100 lbs. or that I was an overweight kid. I did however, work in a gym for 7 years and have had a gym membership at various gyms since I could drive.  In addition to that,  I like to think I have some knowledge of how the female body works (at least mine). I gained 40 lbs with each pregnancy and lost it between each baby.
Its not easy. 
If anyone tells you it is, they are lying.  Also, its not about the number on the scale.  That is a good way to gauge it if you need to, but if your goal is a number, pick a new goal.  I am 5 ft.5, and I had the number 125 stuck in my head. The last time I weighed this was in 5th grade.  Its not possible for me, at least in a healthy way.  I am a size 4 and at Ann Taylor a size 2 (size-conspiracy).  My pants don't care how much I weigh.
I have heard every excuse ever made, and some are extremely tempting. The hardest thing to do is get started. After I had 3 c-sections, I was not allowed to exercise for at least 8 weeks.  I whined about how I "wanted" to, but little did I know, that when the 8 weeks came around my mind came up with some really creative excuses as to why I shouldn't start. "I'm tired." "My boobs hurt". "I feel ugly." Knowing I had done this before I set realistic goals. I went 3 times a week and eventually worked my way up to 6 times (granted this is 20 months later).  I had a friend tell me that she hated me for being so "skinny".  I wanted to tell her that she would hate me even more if I called her at 4:55 a.m. when I got up to work out.
Here is my advice, take it or leave it.

A cleanse with a famous person's name in front of it does not work.  Have you ever noticed that people that do cleanses do them 3 or 4 times when if it worked in the first place they wouldn't need to. And I can't think of anything more disgusting than cayenne pepper and lemon juice.

Do not eat birthday cake at every birthday party. I have 1 husband, 4 sons, 2 siblings, 1 dog, 2 parents, 2 in-laws and 12 nieces and nephews. Not to mention the minimum 2 parties per month per son. If I ate cake at every party I would be as big as the bounce house. And resist guilt or the hostess pressuring you to eat it, she only wants you to eat it so she doesn't have to take it home with her and be tempted by it.

Don't rely on a product because some day it won't be there.  Does anyone remember Dr. Phil bars? I do, and guess what?  They are off the market.

Replacing real food with a liquid lunch may work at first but will have horrible ramifications later. Remember Oprah and the wagon of fat? Enough said.

Pack your lunch and don't bring your wallet to work with you.  If you stay at home, pack a lunch too, and just eat whatever is in it until dinner time.

Weigh and measure your food at least once. When I discovered what the actual serving size of grilled chicken was vs. what I was eating they were two very different things. Portion size is very important. And for the record, a 1/2 cup serving of ice cream is pretty much the size of a pudding cup...lame.

Some supplements are good. I don't think they are absolutely necessary, but if a few energy supplements give you the motivation to work out, than go for it, just make sure to do your research and be confident that they are safe. Remember the one Anna Nicole Smith endorsed before she died? Point taken.

Eat.   A huge pet peeve of mine is sitting in a salon listening to a woman brag that all she has eaten is a carrot all day. Guess what ? When you starve yourself your body goes into starvation mode and will store all the fat it can find..forever.

Eat good food and don't give up anything you love. I tried this once. Sure, I used lent as an excuse to give up complex carbs. You can use God as an excuse for just about anything. It lasted about 2 weeks and ended very very badly with an entire loaf of french bread and chased with a dozen chocolate muffins.

Don't drink...a lot. Time and time again I have told myself that I just need a glass of wine to relax, but it dulls my inhibitions and I end up needing a cookie to go with that wine and then I forget about the cookie and eat dove chocolates and forgot about them until I find all the wrappers in the couch the next morning.  Leave the drinking for celebrating or for when your boss treats you like an idiot.


Try not to eat and watch tv. And for the love of God, if sweets are your weakness, do not watch Cupcake Wars, Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes.

If you say you don't have time to exercise, you are full of it.  Here are a few scenarios for you.  You are like me, work 40+ hours a week and have a million after school activities, not to mention laundry, dinners, lunches etc.  Get up early. In every town across America there is a gym that opens at 5, if not there is a YMCA. If you are a single mom, find a gym that has child care. If you are broke, find a 6x6 foot space and do push ups and burpees.  Your tired, well first of all, aren't we all, but I promise you will have more energy if you work out in the morning than if you don't.

If you have to choose between lifting weight or cardio, pick weights.  Remember, cardio burns calories only while you are doing it and helps your heart and lifting weights burns calories all day long and helps your muffin top. No spot training required. And,  no you wont look like Kim Chizevsky. (if you don't know who that is, google her)

Be anti-social at the gym. If you saw me at the gym you would think I was a hermit. I don't make eye contact, I don't engage in any conversation whatsoever with anyone. Why? I have learned that if you form friendships at the gym you use that as an excuse not to go. You can't avoid people you have never met.   Plus, you tend to work out as hard as your workout partner, if your partner is a puss and suggests you go out for margaritas instead, that is just one more excuse. Find an online support group. There are several, and they have great weigh training suggestions you can print off.

Drink coffee.  I mean black. Not Mochachinofrappelattes. I mean coffee. It has caffiene which is your best friend with 0 calories.

Don't finish your kids food. Yes, it does seem like a waste to put all that macaroni and cheese down the garbage disposal, but it is more of a waste to put it onto the back of your ass.

Once you find that you like working out, don't post it on facebook everytime you go. People don't need to know about something you should be doing everyday anyway, like brushing your teeth. 

Find one thing you really like that is exercise but not at a gym. I like soccer, so I found a team. If you like to dance, do Zumba.

Don't think you can do something you know you can't. I love the idea of yoga. I love the feeling I get after it to, but I suck at it. I could continue to try or I could find something I am good at, like soccer. 

Don't fall back on the "men find _______ women sexy" routine. Who cares what men find attractive? Seriously.  My husband finds Japanese women attractive and I look the opposite of that, but you won't find me dying my hair jet black and straitening it for him. Its not me.  Plus size women claim that men love curves, Skinny women swear that men like twigs..my point is, we don't let men decide what car we drive, why should their opinion determine what our body should look like?

Do it for yourself.  Not to live for your children, or live for your family but just for you to live happily.

Don't become a trainer. As soon as you make it work, it will feel like it and not something you enjoy. Have you ever noticed that most trainers are younger than 25? There are a select few that dedicate their lives to it. But people choose trainers based on their looks and chances are, a 22 year old will beat out a 60 year old even if the latter is 100 times more fit.

Your body will take care of you if you take care of it.  Just like a retirement account, keep depositing your money into it so at some point you can sit back and live comfortably. Keep taking care of your body day after day and when you are old you can be a little chubby huggable Great Grandparent.  That is the way it should be. Can you imagine Betty White with a six pack? She put in her time and she is perfect just the way she is.

Chicka the China the Chinese Chicken

Disgust. Anguish. Shock. Dismay. Agony.  These are all emotions that my boys have expressed when learning what we are having for dinner. That doesn't stop them from eating it however. Each night when they learn that they are not going to be having pizza or macaroni and cheese its as if I have taken the wind out of their sails,  ruined not only their day but their life.  Like any good mother, I don't enjoy seeing my children experience such heartbreak so I decided to publicly post our dinner menu for the week. That way they could air their complaints and begin to face the harsh reality that we will be having Chinese Chicken on Sunday.  My son recently complained to me that I was a health nut. I asked what he thought a health nut was. "Someone who doesn't eat junk food and doesn't pack Doritos in my lunch" Yep. I guess I am a health nut, but what he doesn't know is I eat ice cream most every night that has been conveniently  hidden under the frozen Brussels sprouts after he is in bed.  I'm not closet eating, I just don't want to share it. He said that his friend Kaden always has good lunches. Like, ho ho's, chips and kool-aid. I asked if his friend was tubby, and by the look on his face I knew he was. I'm not only a mom but I'm psychic too.
In the boys opinion they have lost in the parental lottery when it comes to food. My husband may also feel that way too.  I prepare healthy meals that always have a vegetable, protein and healthy carb.  I flourish the name of the meals like "Chinese Chicken" when the only thing that makes it Chinese is the soy sauce I put on their brown rice which is buried under the steamed broccoli and chicken.   I have gotten better though and have been incorporating an enticing dessert only to bribe them to finish. But little do they know its also healthy. Parfaits, apple crisp..you get the idea.
As long as I am cooking thier meals they are going to be healthy, and by the looks of their attendance record, they are too.
My 4 year old, Jack, thought he had found an out to this prison of "gross" dinners. He told me he was a veggie-tarian.  I asked him what that was and he explained that he won't eat animals. So he can only eat pasta, cookies and ice cream. So for clarification purposes I reminded him that veggie-tarians eat VEGETABLES and asked him if he was a vegan. " What is a vegan?" Well, a vegan doesn't eat anything from an animal, milk, eggs or cheese. I think I shot myself in the foot with this one because he seemed appalled when he learned that milk comes from a cows utter. This traumatized him and reminded me of when my brother told me I was eating a baby cow when I had a mouth full of veil.   To this day, I have never eaten another piece a veil.
Jack quickly decided that he would stomach the Salmon Asparagus Tuesday in order to not eat only vegetables for all eternity and this morning he had oatmeal with milk, so I guess he got over the thought that a milk is a cow's pee. But he did say he would only eat the chicken that is round and not the animal kind.  I let it go to not repeat the veil trauma.
My crusade may be a bit selfish or better yet time saving. Don and I have agreed that we will never make more then one dinner per night. Because we want to eat adult food and we are the ones that shop for the food and prepare it, I feel that I  have earned the right to be the Commander of consumption.I will over look the treason that I find in the form on McDonald's wrappers in Don's car.  We are a united front..or at least appear to be.
Perhaps this will backfire.  Being the youngest I grew up in the car and we had a lot of fast food dinners on the go. Thankfully I was athletic, but if I wasn't I could see where it may have resulted in me looking like Natalie from the Facts of Life.  As an adult, I decided to take the opposite approach.  My best friend was brought up on carob rather than chocolate and rebelled when she was in high school. In an afternoon trip to the gas station one day after school she picked up a chocolate milk, m&m's and a cookie just for the ride home.
I do allow my boys to indulge every once in awhile as a reward an to redeem a positive  approval rating.
We teach our kids what is right and wrong and it is just as important to teach them good from bad food. I ate well when they were inside of me, why would I stop wanting to when they are on the outside? All I want to do is provide the foundation for them so that they can grow up to be healthy men. And don't think the only reason I eat clean is to look good in jeans...although that is important, my greatest motivation is that I  want to be around to see them become men, even old men. 

So, when you see one of my boys eating a turkey sandwich with carrot sticks for lunch remember that their mom may be healthy, but is certainly not a nut...at least when it comes to food.

How did I get here?

The other day I zoned out. I don't know if it was complete sleep deprivation due to my recent obsession with the show Homeland and my decision to watch an entire season in 24 hours or the fact that a night has not gone by in 8 years that I have slept 6 hours in a row.  As I looked beside me I watched Don as he ate a bowl of ice cream.  It was as if the past decade had just flown by so quickly and I had abrupt realization of my current situation. My mind started wondering all sorts of things, but mostly how did I get here?


How did we meet at just the right moment?
How did we make it home on most nights?
How in the world did we plan a wedding?
How did I graduate college?
How did we manage to put useless gifts on our wedding registry?
How did we get a mortgage?
How did we end up in the midwest?
How did this living being get into my womb?
How did I become worthy enough to become a mom?
How did my skin (among other things) stretch that far?

How did my entire outlook on everything change when I met the person who had been kicking me for 9 months? 

How did I learn to sleep sitting up?

How did my boobs become an all night milk bar?

How did I learn to love the sound of baby snores?
How did the number 102.5 cause me to call a doctor in a panic?

How did we survive the first 3 months?
How did all my clothes shrink?
How did I become a homebody?
How did my shoe size go up 2 sizes?

How did a fruit loop get in the tub?
How did crayons get in the heating vent?
How did the dog get a play-doe beret?
How did a sharpee get in the dryer?
How did a dvd get stuck in the piano?
How did I get so desensitized by poop?
How did I become over sensitized by any child in the news?
How did a superhero get in my slipper?
How did a puzzle piece get in the toaster?
How did a diaper get into my purse?

How did all the door knobs get so sticky?

How did we go through 8 gallons of milk last week?

How did I know to marry a guy that would morph into such a good daddy?
How did the liquor shelf become the formula/bottle shelf?
How did a paper full of scribbles become my prized possession?
How did I become ok with driving a minivan?
How did my lap become a hot spot?
How did my house seem empty when only 1 child is in it?

How did I get so lucky?
How did my heart get placed on the outside of my chest?

Within moments of these thoughts Don turned to me and asked me why I was staring it him. I just smiled and said " I just was going to ask you a question". Before I could tell him what it was he was getting me a bowl of ice cream.  And with that, my questions were answered. How did I get here? I just went with the flow, I didn't fight where my life was taking me.  There are times when I felt that things were happening that shouldn't have, but looking back a result of those things brought me right here.
My safe haven.

Hoarders gives Mothers Hope.

Yesterday morning as we were getting ready to leave I noticed that the house was unusually quite. I could hear the faint noise of the ending credits of Yo Gabba Gabba and as if DJ Lance himself was summoning me to the kitchen I entered with caution.  There, I discovered that the baby had taken an entire bag of  Bob's Red Mill Flax seed and spread it along the floor. As I went to the garage to find a broom (unsuccessfully) I discovered I didn't need one. Like white on rice our lab had devoured every last seed.  I think he has been anticipating that opportunity for, well, a lifetime. He is a water dog after all, and we all know flax seeds are packed with Omega 3 fatty acids.  He exceeded the equivalent of an entire school of fish, actually, he ate a University of vertebrate.
I wish I could have warned myself of the result of his overindulgence but it was probably best that I didn't know.  It was just one of those days that I felt that our house must be on a fault line and slightly shifted causing everyone to spill everything.  I left the house a mess and closed our front curtain, just in case the mailman peeked inside.  When we are gone, I suspect the papers in our house mate and have clutter babies. Bowls are horny little buggers to and by the time the boys go to bed we have enough dirty bowls to fill a soup kitchen.
By 8 PM on any given school night you cannot see the wood on our dining room table. It is covered with crayons, superheros, permanent markers or as Jack calls them "kermit" markers. He also calls hand sanitizer "hannatizer" and we continue the facade so much that our other boys are unclear of its correct name, just because we can.
When I finally collapse on the couch, I turn on the TV. Don and I sit like zombies.  After 10+ years he has surrendered the remote to me and as a result he has become very familiar with the OWN and TLC networks with E! being a close third.
I turn to Hoarders. As much as I want to turn away, I cannot. We bond over our disgust and we openly judge these people. How can you not know your beloved cat has been so dead that it mummified itself underneath the pile of the drink carriers you have been saving.  Suddenly we look like neat freaks.  As I walk to the kitchen to get another glass of wine I am in awe of the fact that I have a clear path and I don't have to step over a pile of diapers or cat feces.  A good housekeeping point for me.  Next up is Supernanny.  I suspend my empathy just long enough to see a little boy launch a chicken nugget at his mother's face. Next a father who is allowing a girl to color on the walls and this is after they refused to eat anything other than fruit snacks. We give each other a glance as if to say "amateurs". Without this window into others homes we would feel like we were failing. Just the other night it occurred to me that the our i-son4 has evolved. He has built an immunity to discipline and at 21 months he couldn't care less if he is scolded for feeding the dog his lunch. I think he waits for us to see him, maintains eye contact and drops the broccoli right into Grahams mouth. I think I just realized that our dog eats healthier than we do. There are nights when my attempt to make healthy eatable meals fails and results in a dinner of hot dogs, green beans and pasta wheels.  But seeing these decelerated parents actually makes us feel good.
Hoarders is a show that with every episode fuels my self esteem and makes me feel like a modern day Clair Huxtable. I suppose these people are desperate for help and that is why they contact the show producers. I cannot deduce because I have actually contacted Supernanny. It was a low point when I had 3 boys under the age of 4. And guess what? They called me back. But when I told Don he was violently opposed to inviting strangers into our home to film our parental short comings. Especially since he is a teacher and felt that if it was exposed that he couldn't control his own kids how could parents have confidence in his teaching their own plus an additional 29 kids?
Reality tv is as real as a real housewife's marriage, and not any more realistic than friends or strangers putting on appearances or worse, facebook that their homes are harmonic.  What you don't see is the effort that goes on to make it look like their home is organized and their kids love each other.  There is a reason that our Christmas card this year didn't feature all 4 boys sitting in a row smiling. It wasn't an artistic choice, it was because it was not possible. Instead I took an action shot of them walking down a hill (fun!) and individual shots. What you didn't see is Don losing his temper because someone was tattling, Parker doing his fake smile where he squints his eyes and shows his teeth, Fin pinching Jack, Jack crossing his eyes and Oscar running for the hills. ( hence the hill shot) and me tearful asking if it was too much to ask for just one good photo.
Once in awhile its just nice to feel that we aren't doing so bad, even if it takes a bratty kid chucking a chicken nugget or a 40 year old cat woman who hoards Q tips.

A soft place to fall.

As far back as I can remember I have been a sounding board.  By this, I mean that friends, family and even strangers confide in me.  I clearly remember being in preschool when the boy sitting next to me spilled his gut over the anguish he was feeling about a fellow student's resistance to share any other crayon then the white one.  We all knew that the white crayon didn't work, and it hurt his feelings.  I listened, and traded my crayon with his and made a nice invisible drawing on white paper.  In grade school I needed tutoring and by the end of the hour, I knew more than I cared to about the teacher including her spouses name and husband's daily ritual of leaving the shampoo lid open in the shower.
Cyber space isn't big enough for all the information I have soaked up in my sponge.  My problem is, is that I cannot just wring out everything I have heard.  When I was 13  a my "boyfriend" told me that he loved my eyes because they reminded him of  big brown cozy sofas.  I think he was right, and so comfortable that people see them and want to take a load off on my face. And they do.  It can range from useless information from the checkout person, to a deeply personal crisis from the Starbucks lady.  My mother has told me it is a gift, but if that is the case, there are days I would like to return it.  Is there a group for over-empathic's? If not, I may start one, but then again we may never leave the church basement.
Just today (and its only noon) I have had an email therapy session with a friend, heard about a my son's pre-school teacher's struggle with dyslexia, my mom's distress over her friend who is old and dying and her kids won't care for her, (my mom also needed cell phone assistance to set her phone to vibrate). An exhausted friend sought "veteran" mother advice because her son won't sleep through the night.  A co-worker who was at the receiving end of our bosses wrath needed reassurance that he did not deserve it. The lady who walked in ahead of me this morning shared her distain for the sidewalk salt and lastly I listened to a friend who just two months ago lost her 11 year old daughter.
This is where my "gift" becomes more of a curse. I don't even know if I would have called her a friend prior to this conversation.  She is a woman who works at a place that I get coffee everyday. She just returned from a bereavement leave.  I cautiously approached her to acknowledge that she was back and that I was happy to see her.  There was a brief moment when I was teetering on the next question. Her eyes seemed to be pleading with me. So rather then avoiding a huge elephant in the room, I asked the dumbest question I could. "How are you doing?"  What a stupid question.  Obviously she couldn't answer me and asked if we could go talk somewhere.  Prior to this I had only spoken to her for 5 minutes at the most. I followed as she lead me to a table.  Like some people view men who have been prisoners of war and returned, I view her as someone who is experiencing a hell on Earth, which is also my biggest fear. There is a sick curiosity that I need to know how she is still surviving, because she has been to a place that I don't believe I could go and come back alive.  As she was sharing how angry she was I could feel her pain.  I wanted to cry too, but I felt that I had to be a sponge and absorb her anguish, in hopes it may give her some reprieve, even just for a moment. I had a flashback of the way I felt when I thought I lost Jack and how the hug of a neighbor had made me feel a brief solace. That was nothing like this and I soon realized that there was nothing I could say that would give her any relief and that my purpose was just to listen. I lost track of time and 30 minutes had passed, it would have gone on but I told her I needed to go back to my office. She understood and I left, now with the elephant that was in the room, sitting on my chest.  I felt guilty that I would get to go home and hug my boys and she couldn't.
What do you say to someone who has lost a child? I thought back to another friend who had a lost a son at an early age.  He was an adorable toddler when he died in an accident.  I remember avoiding her because seeing her caused me so much pain. At one point I had pulled the car over and sobbed because I couldn't imagine how she was feeling, especially because my first son hadn't been born yet.   Finally, after several years we sat down and talked.  She told me that she knew I had been distant. She moves through life now on a day to day basis, has faith that God would not give her more than she could handle, and she is certain she could not handle losing another child.  Her strength was admirable and I think of her as a solider also, but fighting extreme despondency that could never be measured with rank.
I didn't want to be distant this time, selfish because the mere thought of losing a child made me feel uncomfortable. Like the hug from my neighbor, nothing was spoken but standing heart to heart I knew she understood. And that is the simple reality.  There are no words that exist that could console someone dealing with such a tragedy and there is no reason to try and find them. Its far better to just be there and listen.
Sometimes gifts don't fit, or you don't like them, but in my case some people just need a soft place to fall and I will offer my cozy brown sofas any time.