A Week of Saturdays

My husband and I have our summers off.  It sounds dreamy doesn't it?  It does to me too ten months out of the year.  During those ten months I think of everything I would like to do in the summer. The list includes, re-organize the entire house, write a book, cook, go on several field trips to enlighten our sons,  and to do at least one project from Pinterest. So far the only thing we have managed to do was a short field trip to my brother's house where the only education was how to scream explicatives when lighting off explosives (like their father). The last thing I expected to explain to a four year old was what an ass-cap was.  Come to think of it, I don't even know.
Another educational moment came when we had to explain why our puppy was getting neutered. I have never seen more empathy exude from my sons than when they learned that Wally would be having his balls removed.  I have had major surgery where they dug into my abdomen to yank out a live baby, and when I got home they wondered why I wasn't making them pancakes. They didn't let Wally lift a paw.  Inevitably, this was a nice segue into the statement that if boys couldn't have babies or puppies why it was necessary to remove his private parts. Which is a true statement, but trying to explain how was just too much to wrap my mind around. Plus, as my oldest pointed out, if he did get a girl dog pregnant, she isn't our dog so it wouldn't be our problem. I must make a note to revisit this topic when they are in high school.
I have a couple of weeks left and in a last ditch effort I am trying to make the most of my summer.  I have been making lists for each day so that we don't find ourselves at 11:30 in the morning saying "But I thought you fed them breakfast?"
The list included chores as well as fun adventures such as "take a walk".  Much to my surprise it hasn't been as accepted as I had hoped.  In fact, I think I'm the only one who has been following this list anyway. That was until yesterday when Don noticed an appointment to go see Magic Mike with girlfriends.   He explained that I would freak out if he called all of his buddies to go see a movie about girl strippers.   I think once he said it he knew that this was going to cause a minor outburst.
"Excuse me?" I said.  What he seemed to have overlooked, is that he is going to his younger brother's BACHELOR PARTY in a week.  I explained that although I'm going to a fictional story with male actors, (some of which have been classically trained by the way) about male strippers,  I will only be paying $6 for my ticket where last time I checked (which was never) lap dances don't have a matinee rate and I'm going to go out on a limb and say they are NOT classically trained. And while on the subject, I decided to express my disgust that our hard earned money was going to end up in some girls underwear.  It was then he decided to share that they don't wear underwear.
That is an image I didn't need and it didn't really help Don's argument anyway.
Before this summer is over we were determined to have a date night.  Date nights sound good in theory and from what I understand are crucial for a healthy marriage and we obviously needed that (see above argument). It always seems fun until the night actually rolls around.  I'm standing in the bathroom trying to dry my hair in a steamy room because  Don got to take a shower first.  The humidity does not help my attempt to un frizz my hair. Plus the mirror is foggy and I have a two year old trying to brush his teeth standing in front of me. Not only that,  we don't want to spend money because we will be paying our babysitter at least $50. We try and avoid eating dinner out and because of this, we decided to drink our dinner instead.  When its time for us to leave,  I say a little prayer for the babysitter as I sneak out the door. She is left with 4 over excited boys, and 2 dogs wearing e- collars (or better known as cones).
We try and make a point to not talk about our children on our dates, its like talking about work and nobody wants to talk about that when you are trying to relax and have fun.  Speaking of fun, I wanted play an honesty game and asked Don to tell me honestly if I ever do things that annoy him . If you ever think this game is a good idea, let me tell you first hand its not.   I just thought he would say a few little things, like the way I load the dishwasher, and it would give me the opportunity to say something like, how I he avoids laundry like the plague. But the conversation took a wrong turn and he told me some things that were honest, but after a few drinks really hurt my feelings.  For example, that I make healthy substitutions in every meal and that some of time it results in our meals tasting like cardboard.  Or that I never finish the books I start.  I was trying so hard to be the cool girl I was before I was his wife and so when Don mentioned he wanted to go to the Tilted Kilt, I agreed.  This is a girl who never stepped foot in a Hooters.  Now I found myself walking into a place where "T" is the special of the day and "A" is the vegetable.  Not only that, I was the only female. LITERALLY the only female in this establishment that didn't work there.   We sat at the bar and I ordered a beer.  Again trying to be the cool girlfriend.  "Kelly" was the bartender and she was on me like a bee to honey.   I think she found solace that Imaintained eye contact with, well, her eyes.  I did however look at her playboy tramp stamp when she turned around.
She had a playboy symbol with some kind of trellis around it and it got me to thinking, when Kelly told the tattoo artist that she wanted this, what was her motive?  I mean, real playboy bunnies get a diamond playboy necklace and they don't even scar their body with a tattoo that they can't even see.  Or did Kelly think that by having this tattoo that it would be the edge she needed to get her foot into the playboy mansion? This complex inner dialogue was saving me from watching one of the 400 televisions that had baseball on them.  I digress.
Perhapes it was the beer, Kelly or the fact that my Scottish heritage was being mocked by waitresses in infant kilts, but Don's comment about my cooking had been able to simmer and now I was mad.   This came as a complete shock to Don and he thought the guy next to me who had told me his life story had said something to bother me.  I just wanted to go.
Thankfully after so many years my husband knows how to get me out of a funk. He asked me if I wanted to take a dip. This is his cheesy way of asking if I want a dipped ice cream cone. I said no and he ignored me and took me right to McDonalds. By the time I was devouring my ice cream I had forgotten what he said and decided to not ask him if he thought I should get a tramp stamp.
When we got home the boys were fast asleep.  That in itself is worth the $60 we spent.
So this summer hasn't exactly gone the way I had planned it, but when I laid down that night with a killer headache ( I think Kelly roofied me) I got a little excited.  Excited that the next day was Saturday (ok, Wednesday) and we could sleep in, have a lazy morning and snuggle on the couch and do what we please.

Camp Pick Up!

What a long week it has been.  Its hard to explain how missing one child can set me off balance and shake the foundation of our entire home.   With Parker gone, we distracted ourselves with a short road trip to my brother's. Oscar stayed with my parents.  It was like a vacation, not having to run after a two year old for two days. I'm not exaggerating, if Oscar is out of our house he is on the go, and I am chasing him in stores, restaurants, malls and cemeteries, if he is not contained he is running for the hills. We spent our vacation laying by a pool eating good food and drinking good drinks.  Jack belly flopped out of a tree but made sure to scream "I'm Ooooo. kkkkkk on the way down." We let them drink soda and stay up until midnight.  I enjoyed myself but I could' t help but wish Parker was there.
The camp system had a feature that allowed you email your camper. I sent him a few emails (everyday), some a bit mushy due to the alcohol.  A friend of mine wants to invent a breathalyzer on any communication device to avoid embarrassing over indulgent emails and texts.   I only got a little too deep when I wrote , your bed is cold and your room is dark, the house isn't the same.. to a nine year old.
Eventually the pick up day came.  The night before I felt like a house guest was coming. I did all of his laundry, cleaned his room, made a cake, got food for his favorite dinner. I couldn't sleep and woke up early. If this is how I feel after a week of camp, I can't imagine what college is going to be like.  I always thought is was sad when women said that they were nothing without their kids. I never felt that I was a nobody before kids, and I'm certainly a somebody after kids, however this somebody was a pathetic shell of a mother who whined all day and yelled at her husband for letting their first born go to camp.
I wasn't that I just missed him, it was the circumstances that I left. If he would have shown any signs of enthusiasm to go its one thing, but when he is pleading with me to not leave him. Don and I have agreed to disagree on this subject. He said he never said that, but I said he didn't need to because his eyes said it for him.   At least he had a close friend with him.
I pulled up to the cabin at 8:45a.m. , the pick up time was 9. It was a ghost town, apparently they were eating breakfast.  I took that opportunity to go into the cabin and see what it looked like after a week of camp.  It looked like 15 nine and ten year olds plus 4 teenagers who didn't have their mothers cleaning up after them would keep their rooms. I will leave the gory details to your imagination.  I went to Parker's bunk.  His bed was made and his photo album was placed on a shelf.. next to about 4 or 5 skittles wrappers.  I got a letting choked up.  I noticed his friends bunk was empty and figured his parents had been early.   I decided to wait outside for him to arrive.  Another mother had showed up and I could tell she was as anxious as I was.  Her son's cabin came down first. She actually jumped up when she saw him and waved. Her son resisted the urge to run, and cooley sauntered over and gave her a long hug.  I took her as an example.
Parker had been along with these "guys" for a whole week and established his mojo, and I wasn't going to bust it by calling him peanut and picking him up.  I was going to go off of his cue as to how I greeted him.   A few more cabins came down the hill.  I was a mess of butterflies and excitement, kind of how I felt as I waited his birth, minus the killer contractions.   I saw a few familiar boys. I knew the boys in his cabin because they had posted pictures on Facebook of the group, none of which Parker was smiling I might add.
I saw a version of what my son looked like when I left him, except he was about 2 shades blonder, and 4 shades darker.  He saw me and ran towards me screaming "mama!" and almost knocked me down when he hugged me. I lost it.  I tried to hide my tears behind my sunglasses.  I hugged him as long as I could and then took an inventory of his appearance. His clothes were clean, his body...full of poison something and heat rash and I have never thought he looked better.  He said, "I had so much fun!"
The week long of worry was a waste of time.   We went to collect his belongings in  he cabin and he said goodbye to his new friends. The one he came with went home after the second day because he was homesick.  I couldn't believe it.  He was the reason we came to this camp! I felt bad for him, but felt even more proud that Parker stuck it out.
Getting out of camp is a long process, but it gave us time to talk. And by talk I mean ask him questions and getting one word answers.   He had money left over from his store account.  He only spent $26.  I was impressed until he told me that he only got sodas from the store and they were $1. 26 sodas in six days. His pride was that he got bit by a leech and the camp counselors had to burn it off. If that wasn't thrilling enough, he jumped over a snake pit, saw a frog that was bigger than his hand and caught a fish. He also swam, climbed a rock wall, went tubing, shot a rifle and bow and arrow (wait what?) and ate pizza for breakfast (again, what?)
The bottom line is that he had more fun then he has ever had and it didn't include any electronics whatsoever. More importantly, he found confidence in himself that allowed him to try new things and succeed at them only holding himself accountable for his success.  Something I wish I had the confidence to do more.
He told me he won the "coolest middle name award" which happens to be my maiden name. And that the kids in his camp called him by that name all week.  He said he tried to get his friend Joe to stay, but he missed home too much. I asked if he felt homesick and he said only when he thought of us, and so he decided to just not think of us at all.
When we got home he was thankfully for air conditioning and excited to see his dad and brothers. But, more excited to see his dogs.  He took a shower (my strong suggestion) and laid down on the couch.  He fell asleep until dinner, maybe it was lack of caffeine or just the comfort of being home.
As much as I think I need to take care of him, he proved to me that he is fully capable of taking care of himself, and if I think about it, that is what we have been striving for all along.

Camp drop off

A few months ago my oldest son asked me if he could go to camp.  I said no. I didn't even think about it, it just came out, "no".  He sulked a bit and walked away.  A few days later his friend Joe called and said he was going and Parker could be his bunk mate.  With this new knowledge Parker asked Don if he could go and he said yes, it just came out "yes".  Joe is a good friend of my son's but I also know that Joe is the youngest of three and has advanced street smarts when MY son isn't even allowed to cross the street, he is so smart about.  He also has a lot more freedom and the last time I picked Parker up from a playdate they were jumping from a tree house onto a trampoline which had a sprinkler under it. Not only that, this was an ancient trampoline from before my time with rusty springs that were exposed and don't think for a second there was a safety net around it. So when I think of Joe, safety is the last thing that comes to mind.
I made sure to share this info with Don as we whisper argued in bed.  We always whisper in bed even though the boys rooms are on a different floor. I'm even uncomfortable with THAT distance.  Don said he had always wanted to go to camp and his parents didn't let him (my mother-in-law has never looked so wise) and that I had spoken fondly of my camp time.
I guess I was around the same age when I went to the same camp that Parker wants to attend.  Sure I spoke highly of the camp fires and horse back riding, what I failed to mention is that I wore my bathing suit the majority of the time, didn't shower , slept with my camp counselor because I was afraid of the dark and pooped in the lake because I had held it so long for fear of pooping on the camp toilet.
Nope, I hadn't mentioned that.
I reluctantly agreed only because I didn't want to spoil a great time on account of my selfish need to tuck him in every night.   I spent a few days packing his suitcase. I packed an outfit for every day.  Underwear, shorts and a t-shirt ( in that order) tied with a string.  That way he matches and also, I know if he actually changed clothes because he has to untie the string.   PJ's, a couple flashlights, a photo album with pictures of us and his beloved chocolate labs. Bug spray, a body wash-shampoo-conditioner all in one and his stuffed rabbit.
We arrived and discovered that they didn't open the doors until exactly at 2 o'clock, the assigned drop off time.  Despite being on a lake in a very wooded area, we managed to stand for 30 minutes in the direct sunlight on the hottest day of the year.  Welcome to camp kid.
It was miserable.  I could feel the sweat dripping down my chest across my stomach which was stuck in knots.  I looked around.  A lot of little kids with their parents who seemed eager to drop their kids off and run. I on the other hand was plotting an escape with my son and didn't care about my husband. He was a rockstar there, it appeared that he had taught 75% of the campers at one time in their life and every other minute someone was screaming his name and he would give the same smile and wave, even if he knew them or not.  So naturally he thought this camp was awesome.
We were finally allowed in and by that time my shirt was completely stuck to my body and felt so pretty as I met the bubbly teen camp counselors.  I thought I would share that I was an alumni of this camp but realized it was 25 years ago, which is 10 years prior to their existence so I opted to keep my mouth shut.
Parker had been talking for weeks about some swimming test that campers do to assess their level. Yellow is beginner Blue is intermediate and Green is advanced. I think this a fantastic idea because once assessed they wear the color bracelet the entire time.  We walked down to the lake and as I saw the other swimmers doing backstroke, breaststroke and knew he was in trouble. He eased in to the same lake that only 25 years ago his mother pooped in. He did the first lap fine, but he has never even heard of backstroke. I saw him flailing and gasping for air screaming to the lifeguard. It was at that point she told him to stand up.  He didn't realize he could touch the bottom.  I knew this was bad. He had his stone face on which meant he is one crack away from a reluctant breakdown.  He didn't finish the test and returned to us with a yellow wristband which he has to sport the entire week screaming he sucks. He was devastated and couldn't fight back his tears. He may be our oldest, but without his younger brothers around he let his vulnerability show. This is not a good start.  We told him that it didn't mean anything and he argued that a rock could swim better than him, and honestly I had to agree.  I hugged my soaking sobbing son and wrapped him in a towel glaring at Don.  I mouthed "good idea ass hole" Ok, I didn't mouth ass hole, but he got my drift.
We took the long walk to the cabin where we were greeted by four young guys who god bless them,  are going to have quite a week.  I'm coddling my tearful son and I'm sure they could see the helicopter swirling over me and labeled me right away.  I didn't care if they thought I was a hover-mom, I was about to leave my first born in the care of these hormone raging non-maternal "kids".  The camp guy asked how the test went, how do you think it went Mr. Obvious?   Don was trying his best to make Parker feel better who had now declared that he didn't want to go to camp,  and wanted to go home.  Before I could say ok and run, Don was hugging him goodbye and grabbing my hand to go.  I tried my best to break free of his grip, but he is stronger and I gave one last hug to my poor baby whose eyes were now bigger than any puppies pleading with me to not subject him to this torture disguised as camp.
I looked across the lake where there are multi-million dollar homes and wondered if they would rent me a room with a view and a set of binoculars for a week.  As we walked up the hill to our car I had to fight every urge to turn around.  I think that is why Don was walking behind me.  I fought back tears.  We are paying a fortune to leave our son at something he doesn't want to do.    Before I left, I took a care package to the office to be delivered in two days.  Unfortunately one of the items was goggles.  Way to rub salt in the wound mother of the year.
Once we got in the car I kept saying on repeat that this was not a good idea. I stopped the car and said that my intuition was telling me that I needed to go back and pick him up and Don said my intuition had been suffocated by my mom-tuition and that he was going to be fine.  We took a wrong turn to get out and I again reminded Don that this was a sign.   As we got on the main road my ovaries where straining in their magnetic pull toward my baby.  It started to pour down rain.
"Oh great Don, our son will spend his first night away from home, in a torrential downpour which will lead to a tsunami and our son's cabin is right on the lake" TURN AROUND!"
Don was now trying to suppress a laugh as he continued to drive in the wrong direction, which was any direction that was not towards our son.  That made me even more mad and I told him that this was all his fault and we are causing serious damage by abandoning our son. He said that damage pales in comparison to the damage our son would endure if his mommy ran back to his cabin and swaddled him in to a beach towel burrito and bolted.
I guess he has a point.  It has now been five hours.. I don't know how I'm going to last another 148 hours until we pick him up.
I can't call, he can't call me and now I'm wishing I had gotten him that  iphone he has been wanting since he was 7, again bad bad mommy.
This is a lesson for both of us I'm sure, I just haven't figured out which kind.

72 hours for a 5 minute conversation

I have been attempting to have a conversation with my best friend for 72 hours.  It is not even what I would call a gripping  or even relevant conversation, its just a chat that prior to having kids I could have had done and over with in 20 minutes.   I am off of work for the summer. (Amen)  I have an outgoing message that reads:
            I will be out for June and July. I will return on August 1. I will not be checking my email.  
I have received not 1 or 2 but 10 emails from my boss asking questions that he needs answers to immediately.  Surely there must be a glitch in my out of office reply so I tested it. Within a second I have my strait forward message in my inbox. He is ignoring my side of the conversation, which in all honestly is how most of our interactions go anyway.
I have been off for almost 2 weeks and it has been anything but relaxing.  It feels like Saturday every day and that is not good for my psyche. I want to sleep in, I don't want to work out and I don't want to cook. I want to graze all day, stay up late and drink a bottle of wine.  It only took about 3 days to discover that wasn't going to work.
Back in January I thought it would be a good idea to schedule everyone's doctor appointments for June.  I would like to slap myself for that.  I have been to the doctor 4 times, had one child have a surgery, dental appointments and my dog is going to get neutered.   I tried to explain it to the boys.
"They cut his penis off?"
"No, but he won't be able to have puppies."
 "But he will still be able to pee right?"
"Yes! They don't cut his penis off they remove his balls."
"What!?"
"He is asleep, won't be in pain but he will need to relax for a couple days."
I discovered the one way to silence my 2 older boys is to talk about castration.   Later that day Fin asked me if Wally's balls were gone would he still be able to love?  Ahh, the age old question, similar to, if a tree falls in the woods.... I guess guys really do think (and love) with their penises.
Between baseball games, karate and other non-interesting things I tried to give my friend a call because she has a new love interest.  Do you know how exciting that is for me? I live vicariously through anyone who dates. It has been so long since I was in that world and it fascinates me.  So as you can imagine I want to know details.
I always call her in-route to another event. I know I shouldn't talk and drive, but I am careful and its better than texting.  By the time I get to the good part, either someone in the back has hit someone or something has been thrown out the window.  I sometimes think they run out of things to argue about so all I hear is "NO!" "YES!""NOOOOO!" "YES!""NOOOOOOO!" "YES!" back and forth until I am forced to end the 30 second conversation. Talking and driving is not going to kill me, its driving with kids that will.
On the way back from the pool the other day I was so tired of the constant back and forth nonsense that I pulled over and screamed at them.  SCREAMED.  I had reached my boiling point.  As much as I scream on the inside, I very rarely, if ever, let it actually become audible.  I was hot, tired, hungry and just sick of it. I just howled " STOP IT!" The looks on their faces were as if I had somehow morphed into my husband. It freaked them out and I saw my 7 year olds bottom lip start to quiver. Usually this would make me feel bad, but in this case it made me feel victorious.  That was, until I realized that I had pulled over into someones yard who also happened to be doing some planting and was now watching me.   She must have sensed the primal tone in my cry because she didn't look at me with disgust, but a more empathic look.  She knew I was exerting my alpha status in my pack and respected that.
 Rather than talk, I turned up the radio and pulled away, even if they did say something I couldn't hear it.  When I did turn the radio down because of a commercial, I heard a sheepish "mommy" and I turned it right back up. I was closed for business.
That was obviously not the time to pick up on the conversation with my friend.  I really wanted to know more about this guys abs. I know, it sounds so petty, especially when I have four mouthes to feed and no clue what to feed them, but at this given moment that is all I cared about.
When we got home the three older ones each apologized to me as that got out of the car, and then I was overcome with tremendous guilt and the realization that I have probably caused permeant ear damage , not to mention longterm psychological distress and I suck as a mom. Ok, guilt pizza and ice cream sundaes for dinner tonight
In entering the house all I wanted to do was sit on the couch and stare at Bubble Guppies, Oscar's favorite show and coincidently mine too.  And THAT is a perfect example that contact with the outside world is so crucial to my existence.
The next day, she was able to reach me and I got the next 3 minutes of the story before I had to watch my son, who was up to bat at baseball.  The one thing I won't be is the parent who talks on their phone during games.  That is just rude to everyone who has to listen and I wouldn't be able to concentrate, so that deletes 2.5 hours of talk time.
On the way home I called her and  learned of what he wrote to her in his recent text.
Flirting.
Flirting is an ancient language form that seems to have died in my world. It might as well be in Latin.  I just don't remember what it was like and by God I want to KNOW what he texted her at 11 p.m on a school night! And further more, back when I was flirting, texting wasn't even invented yet.
But after several failed attempts that have spanned over 72 hours I have just given up.  I know it was a stretch for me to think that an actual conversation was even possible. Its not like the good old days when I was at work and had hours of time to talk. Now I'm deep in the trenches and not sure if I will ever be coming out alive.
For all I know, she could move on to get married and start their saga together and I will still be stuck on the pilot episode, watching late at night and pausing my dvr every minute because someone needs a drink, needs a hug, needs to poop or my favorite," I need to tell you something REALLY important...my rabbit, today, um, she, um.. I forgot"
Like a vampire needs blood, I need girl time.  My mind craves conversations about stupid reality tv and deep conversations about what guys really mean when they say, " I owe you one".  
Not that all girl time is filled with unimportant jargon, but sometimes that is the only language that I seem to understand.
My girlfriend sensed my battle cry and she is doing what only a good friend would do.  Knowing my husband will be out of town this weekend and she is going to take a 10 hour road trip to visit.  That way, even if our conversation takes a little longer and we veer off topic 40 times, I will be able to finish this damn conversation.  I may even get to hear what she texted back.

Run for your life

Our city has an annual race every June.  I first became aware of it twelve years ago when I was planning our wedding. In short, the weekend we wanted to have our wedding was the same weekend of the race and therefore we were unable to.
That was the first time I cursed this race.
We ended up getting married the following weekend. I had blocked the race out of my mind.  Until we got our first house.  On our first weekend in June I discovered early one Saturday morning that we were prisoners in our own home because this race ran right by our house. As early as 7 in the morning I could hear cheering. This was before children, when 7 a.m. was considered early.
That was the second time I cursed this damn race.
The following year I had a 3 month old and since we weren't sleeping in, we sat outside and watched as the runners went by. I ate my husband's famous french toast and watched as insanely fit people ran by our house.  I looked down at my puffy jelly donut belly and for the third time I cursed this stupid race.
I watched this event 3 more times and finally 12 years from learning about it, I decided to participate.

I had seen an advertisement in January about it and decided that 6 months was enough time for me to train for it.  I mentioned it to Don.                          I added this big long space to represent what he said (nothing). After carefully choosing his words, he said, "but you hate to run, and come to think of it, you hate that race".  Not exactly the support I was looking for, but I took it as a challenge and began training the next day.  By the following week I had quit.  My husband is right.  I loath running. I think it has to do with years of playing soccer.  When we had to run, it was at practice, and it was usually because a teammate (not me of course) running her sassy mouth to the coach.  It was punishment and so began my hatred or better yet, fear of running.

I still vowed to do it and focused my daily workouts on anything but running.  I can't even look a treadmill in the eye without getting ill.
I asked myself why I wanted to do this if it was causing me such anxiety? I talked to anyone and everyone about it, and frankly, I think my friends and family were tired of hearing about it.   I had their support and if anyone knows me, they know that once I commit to something , there is no stopping me.  I told my oldest son.
"Do you win anything?"
"No, well the winner does."
"Are you going to win?"
"No."
He gave me a look of "then why run it?" and moved on.
Again, why do I want run it? I learned it was because I knew it was a big challenge for me.  Deep down I wanted to discover a love of running, although that may be a bit lofty.  I didn't think I could give birth, but I did that. I need goals and I need to push myself in order to make my life worth living. I find that every day I do the same thing, I leave my house at the same time, drive to the same places and have the exact same conversations along the way. Before I know it, days become years and I realize that another year has passed of the exact same thing. This was a new focus and a very big step out of my comfort zone. It made my life a bit more exciting.
The day finally came. The race started at 7:15 and I arrived about an hour early. I had made a new playlist filled with motivational songs, like Marlyn Manson, Rage against the machine, Cake and last but not least, System of a Down, just your typical pick me up music.
Since the race runs through my neighborhood, (they switched the route away from our house a few years ago) They said they got some angry letters from a resident. (totally kidding.)  But the route takes us to the street behind our house.
It was a very cold morning. I had my number pinned to my shirt and found comfort in a local cafe which also happens to specialize in chocolate.   I didn't know where else to go so I gravitated to my comfort zone, chocolate. I could see the runners getting ready. You could tell which race one was doing by the color of the number pinned on their shirt.  5k, 10k, 1/2 marathon and marathon.  The thought crept into my mind "what if I go the wrong way and end up with the marathoners?" I decided to walk off my nervous energy. I went to the hallway and paced, then decided to return to the cafe.  I was watching a group of 1/2 marathons doing high knees in the parking lot and failed to watch where I was going and walked face first into the glass door. I felt the glass cool on my face. I glanced around, stunned hoping nobody saw it, but the loud bang of my knee hitting the glass drew a crowd.  I. Was. Humiliated.  I made some joke about needing coffee and decided it was a good time to go outside. I could hear the people letting out their laughter when they thought I was out of ear shot. Very polite of them,  but if I had been in their shoes I don't know if I could have contained my gut wrenching laughter.
I searched for a familiar face.  I can't go anywhere in this town without seeing someone I know, but apparently everyone I know doesn't run races.  Finally I saw a friend and stood with her until we were called to the start line. I tried to tell her that I suck at running but she stopped me in my verbal assault of myself and told me I was going to do fine.
I lined myself up in the middle of the crowd, listened to a horrific version of the National Anthem, the kind that gets all flashy in the middle. I took that as a sign to turn on my iPod.  The heavy beat of Maryln Manson violated my ears " The beautiful people, the beautiful people, The beautiful people, the beautiful people" And then the crowd started moving.  I had made a decision to go at my own pace, not push it, so that I need to walk, but to get into a nice stride.  I found my pace and stuck to it. I was getting passed by kids, fat people, old people and an amputee, but it didn't stop me, I just kept going.  At one point in the race, I was at the top of a hill, running down. It looked like a sea of heads making waves. It was beautiful. It was such a sight that it gave me goosebumps and I got a little teary eyed, that I was really doing it.  And I was fine. I guess all the exercising and soccer I have been doing, actually prepared me and I was surprised that I didn't hurt.  Towards the middle of the race there is a steep hill.  I watched as one of the over zealous fat women who had passed me earlier was vomiting on the side of the road.  The old people were walking and the amputee, well, she was still way way way ahead of me.  At the top of the hill is my neighborhood. I knew that my husband and four sons would be waiting on the corner, possibly holding a sign that would read " Go Mommy!" at the top so I kept going. I was worried that I would cry at the sight of it, so I tried to hold back my tears and focus on getting up the hill.  I approached our corner, and I could see, nobody, No husband, no kids and no sign.   I wondered if they were further down the street and kept going. Nope they weren't.
Apparently my husband timed it in thinking that I would be running a 20 minute mile.  Um.  In other words, they missed me by about 20 minutes. I discovered that I didn't need their or anyone else's
validation. This was completely all about me. When was the last time I could say that? I don't even remember it has been so long.
As I finished mile two and started the final mile I felt a high. A high that consisted of complete self love  for pushing myself and for knowing that I was going to finish without problem.  The race finished at the 50 yard line of the Notre Dame football stadium.  I saw walkers deciding to push themselves just to finish strong as we approached the tunnel.  My iPod started playing Moby, we are all made of stars, and I patted myself for timing it just right.  I easily glided across. the finish line.
I returned home to a 4 year old who was very worried that they missed me and that I had died.  But thankfully I hadn't. Don was upset he missed me and usually I would have been upset too, but I didn't run it so that people could see me, or to get a great time or place in the top, 2000. I ran just to prove to myself that I am just at the start of my life race, and no where near the end.

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.