Perfect 10

There used to be a series called Best Week Ever on VH1. Does VH1 even exist anymore?  Well,  it's only Thursday, and I have already declared this to be my oldest son's Worst Week Ever.  Coincidentally, mine too. At least from the perspective of a mother.

Last week Parker came home with sharpie painted nails.  After determining that he didn't do it for the fume high,  but rather the appearance  I explained that it was not a good idea.  Living in a house with all boys, Parker hasn't been exposed to nail polish really. I usually wait until they are in bed to paint mine, or I get manicures, but truthfully my nails are very rarely painted.  I explained that if he really wants to color his nails he has to use polish and I would do it for him. I never could have envisioned saying that to my son...ever.
Here is the deal.  Nail polish on a man in 2013 is the equivalent to an earring on a guy in 1985. It was crazy back then and caused eyebrows to raise and rumors about his sexuality to fly depending on which ear it was in. Which, btw my brother got wrong.  Today if I see a guy with two earrings I don't even notice.  It's a trend that crossed gender boundaries and now is (somewhat) acceptable.
So I painted my son's nails black.  Of course I thought it was a little strange, but I'm strange too.

When I was a kid I liked to push boundaries. I'm pretty sure my parents thought I was a lesbian.  I had a mullet. I didn't like to wear a shirt. When I did wear clothes my outfits were never complete without a jersey and belt. I peed in the woods standing up. I preferred playing with muscle men toys than Barbie. I wished in a fountain that I was a boy and when it didn't come true I spit in it.  I signed up to play football for my school only to be told that I wasn't allowed to because I was a girl. So I understand his frustration when he sees girls allowed to do things that boys are typically not.

My mom came over and when she saw Parker's nails she didn't react. Now that is a true test.   Maybe I had broken her in. When I asked her what she thought, she said that her pharmacist has his nails painted.  My first thought was, wow and my second was, that is the kind of pharmacist I want. 
When Parker got to school, his attempt to be different was not accepted well and he was asked to remove his nail polish. I guess its a dress code violation.  He was devastated. In his mind I think he thought it would be perceived as cool and he would be a "rock star".  He said that someone called him gay.  Sounds like the 1985 perception of an earring if you ask me.
I asked him if he liked girls, he said no. I asked him if he liked boys, he said no. So I explained that he doesn't even know if he is gay and even if it turns out he is, being gay isn't a bad thing and it was wrong for someone to call him that with a negative connotation. He said that the boy who called him that apologized later.

So as I'm dealing with this when I hear a horrific scream from the shower upstairs from Fin. Apparently he had another tick.  Yes, he had one earlier this week that had been feasting on his head for three days.  This one was on his stomach.   When I saw it I screamed just like I did when I saw the last one. I followed the instructions I had watched on youtube (again) and removed the reluctant blood sucker.  By the time I got it out I had an audience of 3 of his brothers and the dog in a tiny bathroom with the shower still running and a naked 8 year old screaming.
Which jogs my memory to earlier in the week when I had to take my 3 year old to the doctor for a urine sample because my Mother-in-law convinced me he had a urinary track infection and the 5 of us stood in the tiny office bathroom while I tried to force Oscar to pee in a cup and he wouldn't despite his brother's cheering him on. I got so frustrated I even tried squeezing him thinking that would force him to pee.  It didn't.
Again. not a good week. Not surprisingly he did NOT have anything wrong with him.  45 minutes of my life I cant get back.

The next day I think the nail polish storm had blown over and after a long day at work I was standing in the kitchen wondering if I should make frozen pizza or order it. That is when Parker walked by me with a hickey.  A HICKEY.  A HICKEY! I immediately stopped him and asked him in so many words, WTF is on your neck?  "A hickey" he said nonchalantly and continued walking. Don was quick behind him and mouthing to me " I will take care of it" because he could sense my mama bear claws starting to come out.  They disappeared into the bedroom to avoid little ear hearing the conversation and about 10 minutes later came back into the kitchen where I was still trying to decided on frozen or phone pizza.   Parker explained that the hickey was from a boy in his class, not only that, he gave the boy a hickey too.  They were playing vampire zombie and obviously very committed to their character development.  He said he didn't know what a hickey was until someone else told him that he had one.

In a matter of two days I have had to deal with my son wearing nail polish and now having a hickey.  Not exactly what I pictured I would be dealing with when my son turned 10.  Because it is the end of May I didn't feel that a turtle neck was appropriate so my son is walking around with a big red arrow pointed at him reading call CPS. 

After deciding that turning on the oven was just too hard,  I ordered pizza and sat down at our kitchen table across from Don. We just stared at each other.  Words were not necessary because we were both thinking the same thing. WTF?

Parenting is hard.  There is no easy way around it.  It feels like just when you feel comfortable and like you have everything under control you find yourself removing ticks, questioning sexuality, forcing a urine sample and explaining hickeys.

 It sounds to me more like my college days not elementary. I know there is so much more I need to learn. I'm enrolled in a Parenting University and the way its looking, I am on the eternity plan.

A new perspective on Mothers Day.

Every year Mother's Day rolls around and I forget that this day includes me too. Crazy I know. The truth is, that although I am a mother, I still have those dream like feelings that it is too good to be true. The other issue I have with the day is that I don't want to rain on my own Mother's parade. A woman that I still rely heavily on. And I mean heavily.  If I have a bad day at work, if our nanny is sick,  I call my Mom.  If I need a coffee, doubt my life's purpose.  I call my mom.  She always has the right answer and if she doesn't she will at least make me feel better. 

One of my sons asked me what I wanted this year, and I couldn't think of anything.  Well, except sleep. I could always use more of that. I know a lot of moms joke that they want peace and quiet, but this year I celebrate chaos and commotion.  The fact that I have my boys to tuck in at night,  reassures me that I have everything. 

This Mother's Day things have changed. I'm not lucky or more special than any other mom, but I feel that I have been blessed beyond measure.   

We are bombarded with ads about the perfect gift for your mom, flowers, candy, wine.  But all a Mother really wants is a hug from her child, and too many Moms this year will be spending their Mother's day without being able to touch the child they lost.   My heart aches for them and I wish that they had the opportunity that I have on Sunday morning , to wake up to four warm hugs and cold french toast. 

I 'm especially thinking of the Moms in Newtown and Boston.  What an enormous void they must feel.  

Whether you have given birth or signed the last adoption paper, or  lost a child to disease,  miscarried silently,  or if you, God forbid, lost your baby to a senseless act of violence. You have the undeniable right to celebrate  the moment you became a mom,  it is a title that cannot be forfeited. 

On Sunday, I will celebrate being a mom and  give each of my boys a tighter squeeze.  But I will hold a very special place in my heart for the moms who don't have the opportunity to do the same. 

My 3 year old is acting like a jerk.

Let me just start by saying this, I love my son. Sometimes so much I want to devour him.

However, since turning 3 (less than a month ago) he is driving me nuts.  The mommy and Oscar time we previously enjoyed shopping, have turned into all-out battles.  I know I shouldn't care what other people think, but when my child is the one laying on the ground of the parking lot screaming because he doesn't want to ride in the regular cart, he wants to ride in the stupid plastic car cart (that I told him was broken) I start to get a little self-conscious.
Prior to this, we would go to the grocery store and count apples.  I would enjoy a coffee while he would have a chocolate milk.  Now I have to distract him when we pass the balloons, the doughnuts and the deli. I curse the woman who gave him a free cheese! It ends up in a ball in his pocket and I don't find it until it has been run through the washer a week later.

I eventually convinced him to ride in the regular cart because the car ones were taken (God working miracles), but he has got a serious attitude problem and I fear we have created a jerk.  There, I said it, my 3 year old is acting like a jerk.   There have been times when he was screaming so loud that I have actually rolled up the windows because I didn't want people to think I was hurting him.  When all he wanted was for me to stop singing the "finger song". I have actually broken down and cried out of frustration and I think I saw him smirking.
If you don't know what the finger song is, and you are curious, you can find it on youtube, but I warn you, it will get stuck in your head and never leave and you will find yourself alone with your husband on a date making up alternative dirty lyrics. 

This time at the grocery store Oscar wanted Cheez-its. How or why he knew of these, I don't know, but he can read now. Impressive? Yes, and annoying.  No longer can I tell him that those are spicy mushroom crackers (he hates spicy mushrooms), he is too smart.  I mean, he literally can read, really well.  Every time one of his brothers got into trouble, a viable punishment was to read to Oscar. This has meant hours and hours and hours… and hours of reading time. Which resulted with him by reading at age 3. We can't take any credit, other than our son's misbehavior.

So I gave in to avoid a screaming fest. He decided he would open it and eat them out of the box.  He also has a horrible runny nose and despite being a problem child, he is diligent about blowing his nose. We have told him to blow and he does so willingly because he hates the feeling of a runny nose. Well luck would have it,  my tissues were in my coat, which I wasn't wearing.  So we have a cheesy orange snot mess on his upper lip. After I inconspicuously dump the fruit snacks in the bread aisle (because the last thing we need is more sugar) we are ready to check out. I approach the checkout with a large 3 year old with his hand in a box of Cheez-its yelling "Blow Me" louder and louder.   If having him lay on the cement was embarrassing, this was mortifying.  What people don't know is that all he wants is for me to put a tissue up to his nose to "blow" but its looking more like a spoiled brat who has been repeating his Daddy.

The checkout guy and the bag boy are trying hard not to laugh, but thankfully I ask if they have a tissue and they hand me a paper towel, it worked, at least to stop the escalating volume of Blow Me.  The only thing that would have made this even more iconic was to offer him a cigarette. Just when I think I'm free to escape and hide, he discovers that the fruit snacks are missing.   At this point I just want to leave, and I have lied so many lies at this point to just get him out of the store I decided to add one more. I told him we have some at home.  I know, we must have a crusty package laying around somewhere so its not a total lie, but I just want to get the hell out of this damn store and situation.

I may be a little tired which is causing my fuse to be short. But its hard to sleep when this adorable 3 year old sneaks in at 12:30 every night and buries himself like a tick in the sheets and pillows right smack in the middle of the bed unable to pry free without tweezers or fire.... Sure, Don and I feel him but after saying "not it" to each other regarding taking him back to his bed, we both hope the other will give in and it never happens.

Oscar is the most strong willed little guy I have ever known and maybe in history. He reminds me so much of his older brother it scares me.  Really, it scares me because it was a rough ride 5 years ago when Finegan was 3. And I was younger then, and followed a proper parental code. We even sought professional help on how to deal with his tantrums.  Now we are a watered down cocktail of misheard parenting advice and weariness.

The bottom line is I love my little jerk.  At least I know that when he screams "blow me", he means it with the purist intentions. Its only a matter of a decade before those words change to bite me, but by that time,  I will be reminded that I have been wanting to devour him since the very first time I laid eyes on him.

Why I Cross Fit

Amongst my friends, I am the only one who does Crossfit. Of course I have made quite a few friends along the way but my inner circle of friends (including my husband) don't do it.    I go very early in the morning.  My alarm goes off at 4:55 a.m. I literally leap out of bed because I don't want to wake up anyone else in the house. Not because I am respecting their sleep (God knows they do not respect mine), but more because I am respecting my time.  From 4:55 a.m.- 6:30 a.m. it is all me.  Lately I have had to gingerly get out of bed because I have one or two kids surrounding me like a cocoon. I get asked a lot how I can get up that early. Its easy when it is my singular solace in the day and you better believe it is worth waking up for.

Before I leave I have a ritual, I feed the dogs, set the coffee, and set the breakfast table. I dress in the bathroom with the clothes I've laid out the previous night.  I can't remember the drive to the gym because I'm not fully awake until right before I walk in the door. This is a good thing, because if I were, I could convince myself to turn the car around and go back home.  But by the time I enter the gym any mental hesitation isn't a thought worth entertaining. And yes, everyday there is a slight hesitation because I know, that no matter what, I will not be able to go through this workout half committed.  CF requires your full attention. First, you may get hurt if you are not paying attention. Secondly, there is a lot of counting reps and I will be damned if I am going to do ONE more rep then necessary.
I will admit, when I first started almost a year ago, I did it for vanity reasons. I wanted to see more definition and I was frustrated that despite my daily workouts, I wasn't seeing results from my efforts.
When I walk in to the gym,  I am free from pretense and unlike any other time of the day working in publicity, I don't have to be "ON". Its me, without makeup, just ready to push myself physically and psychologically.   If you are not familiar with this type of workout (this is for you mom) here is a link  crossfit. I can't possibly explain it.

All of this time previously spent at the gym and diligently watching what I ate was because I was trying to be skinny, and when I would look in the mirror at night I didn't like what I saw because it wasn't what I wanted to see. When I had the realization that "skinny" wasn't in my DNA I began to appreciate what I have and have even found that there is beauty in strength.

I'm your average 36 year old married working mother of 4. So Why do I CrossFit? I do it to build confidence in my ability. At work whether it is said or unsaid, I feel that I am inadequate.  I'm not a Ph.D, and I'm certainly not an expert in anything that any one of my colleagues would find interesting.  This belief weighs heavily on my shoulders and I carry it to every meeting I attend. BUT when I'm working out, and nobody there has a clue about what happened at work the previous day, the thought that I'm inadequate never occurs to them. In fact, quite the opposite.  Today I was working to achieve a personal record.  PERSONAL record. That is what is great about CF. You compete only with yourself.  So my PR to beat was 195 lbs.  Today I dead lifted 205 lbs.  If I can't be 100% proud of what my body looks like, at least I can be 100% proud of what it can do.
That is more than my husband weighs and more than what all four of my sons weigh (combined)  And don't think I don't think about that. You have heard the stories of Moms lifting cars to free trapped children, well God forbid if you are ever in that situation, I'm the girl to call.

When I walked into work this morning and my boss criticized a choice I made a week ago, I didn't believe him. Why? Because in the back of my mind I knew that I could dead lift him, and that this morning I felt like I was capable of anything.
I mentioned earlier that I push myself psychologically. For some it is yoga, other's is running but my mediation is this. I push myself to places that I didn't think were possible.  I sweat out any doubt and although there are times when I want to quit, my workout partners and coach are quick to scream encouraging words.  If they have that much confidence that "I can do it" then I better believe I can.  I find myself repeating "you can do this, you can do this, you can do this" but that mantra doesn't stop when I leave the gym.  It continues all day and that is a pretty cool mantra to be telling yourself.

Over the past year I have dealt with the pain of losing a loved one, thankfully I found that surrendering my mental pain for brief but beneficial physical pain eased what I was feeling on the inside.   I have found that sweat not only purges my body of impurities, but also my head of anything I don't need occupying my thoughts.

My intention to begin Crossfit was to look better, I had no idea that  the changes in my body would be an added bonus to something that would give me the strength in more ways than one.

If the shoe fits..

Parker returned home from what he declared, the second BEST day of his life yesterday in a flurry of excitement to tell me about his trip to the Field Museum in Chicago.  The BEST day of his life is when we picked him up from camp. Apparently, he is not the camping type of kid, and I still feel a tinge of guilt for leaving him in 100 degree record temperatures with the promise of fun, and him returning with heat rash and bites all over his body.
Anyway, he was so excited and talking as fast as the micro-machine guy. Later he shared that he had a Frappacino from the vending machine but didn't know it had caffeine.  He plopped down on the couch to show me the pictures he had taken. After we scrolled through a dozen consecutive shots of an aboriginal woman (you know, the kind that don't wear tops) he got to his favorite one.  It was a picture of a tiny shoe.   He showed it to me with Huge eyes.  "Do you know what that is?" I explained that it looked like a shoe. To my credit, the scale of his photos can be misleading at times. He will take a picture of a penny which looks huge and a picture of his dog from so far away he looks like a squirrel.
He explained that is was a tiny shoe of a Chinese courtesan whose feet were bound to fit into what looked like a Barbie size. 
He looked at my feet, then to his, then to his 3 year old brother's.  'That would be like you wearing Oscar's shoes!"  When he put it that way, it made me cringe. "Why in the world would ANYONE do that?"  I have a very vague memory about this ancient custom but what I told him was that it was considered a thing of beauty to have small feet.  He explained that in order to achieve this, the  young girls would have their toes broken and then wrapped tightly so they wouldn't grow.
Again he asked me, why would a woman hurt themselves to be pretty? 
What was I suppose to say? Because she wanted to attract a man?  I just said I didn't know. But here is the thing, I do know.  Not to why small feet were considered attractive, I do have a theory on that which I will get to later.  But to why a woman would hurt themselves for beauty, because I do it myself as do many woman around the world. 
At some point, some where, somebody declared that pubic hair is ugly.  And because of this, I spend money, time and a lot of pain tolerance getting it ripped from my most sensitive areas in an effort to not offend anyone at the pool.  It hurts like a mofo.  In additional to having hair ripped from every sensitive part of my body with hot wax, I have partaken in other beauty treatments that   would make Ancient Chinese women scratch their heads.  Acid treatments on my face, laser treatments on my scars.  One I have not and will not do is anus bleaching.  If this is the first time you have heard about this I apologize to be the one to burst your ignorance to this trend. But yes, woman (and maybe some men) spend money to have their anus bleached to look like a babies. 
I have seen many a baby's anus, and never did I covet their new anus appearance.  Their skin (YES) their butt, (No).  
These treatments are all superficial, what about the ones that aren't? Removing ribs to look slimmer, having fat sucked out of your thighs with a instrument the size of a flute.   Just because we have the means of anesthesia doesn't make it any better to the women breaking their feet, less painful however, yes. 
I found myself asking the same question as Parker. Why?  God doesn't make mistakes.   I have told the boys this so many times. Especially lately.   But if this was the case, why do I spend so much time trying to correct his work?
Now back to my theory on why ancient Chinese men found crippled feet so appealing.  Obviously, a women with bound feet can't move very fast, there for can't run away.  If all anyone wants is to be seen and heard, why are women trying so hard to create less of themselves to be seen?  
I'm sad for young girls of our time.  They are growing up bombarded of images of beauty that focuses on being everything that you are not naturally born with, famous for sex tapes, and a slew of examples of why God made a mistake on them. 
I recently viewed a website that focuses on celebrity plastic surgery. The "good" jobs and the " bad" jobs.  But if celebrities are famous, and recognition is what everyone strives for, then why are they filling themselves up with collagen and fillers? Is it in an effort to restore their youth, that they spent the majority of hating themselves? True beauty doesn't  fade, it just changes and if you have spent time trying to beautify your brain, you will be radiant for years to come.
I may not have girls, but I do have boys who will eventually love a girl.  I am their one continual example of a woman.  They have seen me at my worst, sick, hairy, sweaty , sad, chubby and worst of all, looking in the mirror and hating what I see. My physical appearance means them because  it does not effect the love I have to offer them. In their eyes I exemplify beauty by staying up with them when they are sick,  laughing at their jokes or hugging them when they are scared.  I wish I could look in the mirror and see the beauty they see.  Jack loves to draw pictures of me and the one thing that is constant is my arms, they are always disproportionately huge and extended ready for a hug. 

The World really is our classroom. Its funny that a tiny shoe is what caught a ten year old boy's  attention most.  Well, that and large floppy boobs of an aboriginal woman.  And also shows that it doesn't matter what age you are,  if you pay attention to the tiny things you may learn something. 

Hard Stop

Damn you brain!  I remember hearing a quote that we only use a small portion of our brain.  Well, my small portion is full and I'm interested in up-sizing.  It's not like I have really useful information in it anyway, unless you consider Bret Michaels birthday useful, which it would be if I would have been chosen as his Rock of Love. I really need to clean house. Much like when I'm looking for something in my own house, say my favorite wine opener, I can never find it. I can only find the one I was given when I was a waitress at P. F. Chang's. So every time I want to open a bottle of wine I am reminded of how I spilled an entire drink on a blind man.  He didn't see it coming, but his partner did, and so did my manager who made me pay for his dry cleaning.
I should really just get rid of it, but for whatever reason I keep it around just in case I may need it. If I exercised any amount of patience I would discover that the good wine opener is pushed towards the back of the drawer, but in my haste I grab the crappy one.  The same thing happens with my thoughts.  Someone may have complimented me on a dress I am wearing, but by the time I make it to the ladies room their kind words have been archived and the ones closest to my reflection, are those of someone asking when I was due, a year after giving birth.  For whatever reason, my mind feels more comfortable in the hurtful thoughts.
Recently, we have agreed that our three year old needs to spend more time outside.   This is a really touchy subject for Don and me.   We don't have a large backyard and our front yard has a sidewalk and seems to be the place the boys covet as the best play spot.  So last Sunday we let him. Don was supervising and it appeared to be all good.   I trust my husband but I was watching through our front window as I folded the eternal pile of clean laundry.   I don't trust my newly three year old.  He fears nothing (except his own bed) and recently refuses to wear pants.
I watched as he approached the street and without a beat, crossed it. The entire time Don was exercising the belief that Oscar would stop. Well, he didn't.  He just walked right across.
Thankfully there were no cars anywhere in sight, but that didn't stop me from a full out Jackie Joyner-Kersee sprint even leaping from our front stairs and possibly over Don meeting Oscar on the other side of the street.  I probably had a higher chance of getting hit by a car than he did.
When I scooped him up I told him "no"and marched him back home passing Don with a look that could kill.
This is where I need to implement a [hard stop] policy.  Thoughts that are stored way back in my hard drive occupying quality space surface out of nowhere.  I think about images, and experiences I have had first hand regarding children getting hit by cars. Some didn't survive.  Are these thoughts helpful to me? No. So what I have been trying to do is to implement a hard stop of my continuously streaming thoughts and redirecting it to gratitude.   Before I visited gratitude, I have to admit I took a pitstop at blame.  That look I mentioned earlier that I directed toward Don now had words attached to it.  People may be surprised to learn that I am a wordsmith when it comes to attacking the people I love most.  If you have been on the receiving end of my wrath, and you are reading this, I apologize and am thankful you still love me enough to know that all the things I was saying to you are truly directed at myself.
Don is by no means tolerant, but by now he assumes the role of a sponge and just absorbs a flood of emotions directed at him. Knowing it is just a matter of time before I squeeze him and ask forgiveness. This time was different though. In my selfish worry I neglected to remember that when his brother was  five he was hit by a car and almost died.  I don't need to remind him of what could happen because he has witnessed it first hand with someone he loved. I didn't need to make him feel bad, he still blames himself and was already feeling worse than I could even imagine.
Another example of where a hard stop would have come in handy. I just want to duct tape my mouth shut sometimes.  Actually this hard stop thing may work the next time any sort of alcohol is near me.   In that case,  its not about just stopping my mouth, its stopping my mind too.  If I have any thought that is not going to help me or anyone else out I need to just stop it in its tracks. If I see an attractive man walk by I do not need to indulge in a fantasy about what our life would be like if we were a couple. Seriously, girls do this. Guys see an attractive woman and imagine having sex with them, girls (at least me) think of sitting in our spacious (clean) kitchen watching him make my favorite dinner all while pouring me a glass of wine and telling me how sexy I look in my pajama pants and simultaneously discussing Oprah.... See? There I go again. HARD. STOP. HARD STOP!
All too often, I creep into the easily accessible belief that I'm a shitty mom. Its easier than accepting the truth, that way, if something does go terribly wrong I won't have to far fall from my podium and I don't have to act surprised. After a traumatic parenting FAIL Don and I will hash out what went wrong and whose fault it was. This time, we agreed to just let it go. Everything was fine, Oscar was running around pant-less, the dogs were barking, Jack was drawing something I would misinterpret as a phallic symbol and the others were engrossed in Minecraft.  I appreciated that moment in time when we were all safe, happy and warm under one roof and we had skirted catastrophe yet again, I gave thanks that Don has a heart big enough to love his family so deeply and gave gratitude that I had the PF Chang's wine opener still works after all these years of repeated abuse.
Next time I decide that self-doubt is easier to feel than confidence I am going to dig in my heels and create a dead stop. If I  push aside all the junk I'm sure I will find that what I have is really something I should treasure.

We should be very afraid

If the Supreme Court passes the law to allow same sex couples in our country the right to marry, what kind of message is it going to send to my four sons?

I tremble at the thought, that they may learn that every single human has rights and that we are equal. My oldest son gets upset that he needs glasses and his brothers don't. Rather than telling him God doesn't make mistakes, I will need to make a disclaimer and speak really fast like car dealerships commercials.
*Unless you fall in love with someone who happens to be the same sex as you. If this is the case I cannot guarantee that God didn't make a mistake, he must have, because he wanted to make your life hard, and make it impossible for you to support the person you love financially or legally because the law says it is wrong. If this is the case, then surely, you are a mistake.
Maybe I am part of a new generation of parenting that wants my children to respect everyone and everything. You would think this would be the popular opinion. Especially in an age where innocent young lives are being taken tragically because someone didn't honor their right to live.
This issue is more about love than it is hate. My oldest son loves Minecraft, I don't. My second son loves origami, I don't. My third son is obsessed with the Lion King, I'm not. My fourth loves to run, I hate it. I admire their differences and passions. I revel in their uniqueness, and if you ask me, they are all perfect. And, if any one of my sons falls in love with a man, my feeling won't change.
In grade school I remember reading about Rosa Parks and for the longest time I couldn't figure out what the big deal was that she sat at the front of the bus. Why not? I thought. I had no concept of discrimination because I went to school with African American kids, in fact one of them even tutored me in math and I quickly discovered she was gifted in that subject. As I got older I figured out the significance of Rosa Parks' actions. I'm proud of my parents for not making color an issue growing up. I discovered on my own that the majority opinion back then was wrong, especially in the notion that white people were superior intellectually or otherwise.

Some day I hope my boys read about Edith Windsor with the same bewilderment. A woman who loved and took care of her significant other, had a legal marriage, yet when her partner died, she had no right to her estate because their marriage wasn't upheld. I hope they will look upon this time as a time when we just didn't know better. I hope they will be as proud I am of my parents for not making who you love an issue. However today, I can't say the majority opinion is wrong, because the majority opinion is wise to this issue.

As Maya Angelo said, "When you know better, you do better."

What I didn't see growing up is how hard it was for my parents to put earmuff on my ears to the hush the sounds of racism and discrimination. They did a pretty good job. I'm finding it to be difficult. Especially with the subject of same sex marriage. Unfortunately, even at church I have to counter balance any inkling that they may hear that marriage is only sacred if it is between a man and a woman. How can I explain that when most of their friends parents are divorced and they have seen first hand the suffering their cousins are experiencing from the end of my sisters marriage?

I would like to think that my husband and I are doing what every parent does for their child. And that is, raise them on a solid foundation based on unconditional love and respect for not only themselves, but humanity. Unfortunately, that is not the case.
So yes, we should be very afraid. Just as my previous generations were of black and white couples, or people of different races becoming lawyers, doctors, teachers and scientists. If the Supreme Court views everyone's rights equally think of what might happen . In twenty years my children may discover that 2013 was the year that we evolved as a nation and had finally learned the lesson that hate is capable of one thing, and that is to deplete ones mind of thinking intelligently.

Damn I'm good

A friend of mine messaged me that she was upset about how she ate too much ice cream last night and that she feels horrible about it.  The messaging continued and I realized that it wasn't about how much ate, but  more about her frustration.  She wasn't seeing her body changing despite her diligence with the gym and clean (most of the time) eating.  I then responded with, maybe you are perfect as you are and you don't need to change.
Just call me Dr. Phil. I have one line motivating zingers all the time. Sometimes they even surprise me.  I am the go to girl with a lot of my friends when they need to be reminded , in a funny, yet strait forward way to snap out of it.
I was speaking with *Jane ( names have been changed for their privacy) ;)  she is having some issues in the guy department.  Now, I haven't actually dated in over 13 years, but I reminded her that some guys are looking for more than one night stands and the right one will love her for all the reasons I do. She just needs to let her guard down for two seconds and let him see what I see. .... well mostly, some of her thoughts are better off said between us. (Trust me).
Of course I use this with the boys too. Lately I have been trying to explain that other people's opinions don't matter. Just because someone says something about you does not make it the truth. Followed by my favorite phrase,  " If someone called you an airplane, does that mean you could fly?"
I am really really good at picking people up or just celebrating when they are already up. Like a friend of mine inviting me to lunch so I could be one of the first ones she told she was pregnant. I was so very excited for her.  But with this high, also came an extreme low when a few weeks later she miscarried. Despite my moments of saying the perfect thing, there just isn't anything I could say in this case, I just listened.
As I have gotten older, I have tried to find the good in people, despite it being hard at times.  It is so  easy to find things in other people that you don't like. There is something beautiful in just about everyone but you have to pay attention. In some people, beauty can be as hard as finding Waldo. But it's there, somewhere. For example.  I have the privilege in seeing an ex-boyfriend  of mine on facebook recycle and renew girlfriends that all look similar to me.  And when I say similar, I mean to my 19 year old self, and they seem to remain that age too.  The beauty in him is that he is consistent.  The beauty in the situation, is that I didn't end up with him.
Sometimes people are so ugly, on the inside that it oozes to the outside and I have to decide to not associate with them, unless I have to...lets say, to earn a pay check.
I will toot my own horn and say that once I become friends with someone, I will try to make them feel better, not worse about themselves. The problem arises when I don't have anyone to turn to when I need it.
Not at the fault of any of my friends, who would be there for me in a heartbeat. But completely at the fault of my own.  I don't like to share things that are not positive.
I am the anti-cheerleader in my head.
Most of the time the reason I give good advice is because it is the opposite of what I tell myself.  My friend who over ate and I told she didn't need to change? I tell myself that its pointless and that despite how hard I work, I will never look the way I want to.   My friend who is dating and puts an invisible fence around herself? I'm married and still do that for fear that if Don sees all of my crazy at once, rather in small doses, he may not love me as much.
The ex-boyfriend? The pictures I see of him with his girlfriend de jour remind me of what a a horrible choice I made and how I wasted valubale time with him, and even more crying about it.
My friend who had a miscarriage and I didn't say anything. Well, that is because I wouldn't dare verbalize what I told myself when I had them for fear she would run and jump off a bridge. I tell my boys that other people's  opinions don't matter and it is how you feel about yourself  that really does. And although I believe that when it refers to them, it somehow becomes null and void in reference to me.
Will I ever be as good to myself as I am to others?
I'm trying. I need to believe that a friendship is give and take, and my friends are probably wondering why I only share happy things. It is certainly not because I don't have struggles, they are just going on in my head. 
Until then all I can do is celebrate the good things that happen with my friends and try and remember that good things that happen for me are no accident, but just a reflection of the good intentions I give to each of them. All the love that I have I give to my friends and family, but maybe in the future I can spare a little to keep to myself. 

The Brown Decade

My husband and I have officially closed a decade long chapter of diapers.  It all began in March 2003 in a dimly lit room on the 4th floor of Memorial Hospital. I should have been sleeping, but I was still on a birthing high. Not from the joy, more from the drugs. That extra dose of pain killers they put in my IV sent me to crazy town. Spewing memorable quotes like "He has a butt chin" and "I can't believe I  pooped on your hand".
I heard my husband call for the nurse in a panic thinking that our new son had expelled his intestines in his diaper, only to be educated that the black tar was not his guts but a natural occurrence for newborns.
That is how Don was given his first glimpse into an education that little did we know, would continue for the next ten years.  At two different times we had two in diapers.  With this last one, the 2 for 2 was brief (pun intended).  But diapers continued for the next  2 years 10 months.
With our last one, he is the closest thing to a self trained toilet user that we have ever known.  His brother was his accomplice in toilet bootlegging before we even knew about it.
He would have been trained months ago but when we embarked on our road trip to Florida he had the I felt it  would be the WORST time for under-roo enforcement.
I haven't spoken about this road trip until now and it is still very difficult to relive.

As we were in the mountains with cars surrounding ours Mount Oscar erupted. Apparently he had the stomach bug that had infested his school. In an effort to save something (I'm still not sure what because his clothes and car seat were ruined) I used my hands as a bucket as he vomited repeatadly into them and I threw the puke outside the window.  All from reaching backwards from the passenger seat  at 75 MPH. His brothers provided the commentary and the only thing that shut them up was when some of the vomit I tossed out the window sprayed their back window.  When he was finally finished (or so we thought) I turned around and  tried to clean my hands with McDonald's napkins which have the absorbancy of sand paper.  What we hadn't discovered was that he was erupting from the other end too.
We rode in silence until reaching the first available truck stop which also happened to sell fireworks.  I poured a Gatorade on the window in an unsuccessful attempt to clean it off. The sorry excuse for a truck stop only had 2 one person restrooms.  When I emerged from the bathroom holding a pale naked toddler I looked like I had been to battle with a port-a-potty.   We are all still suffering from post traumatic stress after, what has now been named the Brown County incident, mostly in part to the 3 sippy cups of Nestquik he had just consumed, to be honest I don't even know what state were in. Thankfully we only had 16 more hours to go.

I digress.

Here we are exactly 10 years later and I can finally omit diapers from my weekly shopping list.  If a two year old can act embarrassed of his family he certainly does when we break into the potty song when he using the toilet.  Its similar to a birthday at the Olive Garden. Word spreads quickly that someone is on the potty and once we confirm success the family breaks out in unison to the Potty-song. Its now a vintage song that  Don and I made up with our first son. It has 3 verses and when sung correctly, has operatic moments.  I will admit the excitement around Oscar's success had dissipated amongst his brothers, but Don and I are still front and center singing with gusto. Some people reward with M&M's we reward with a performance (jazz hands included).
I think that is why I have seen Oscar trying to sneak in to do his business unannounced. He is trying to avoid the production. He has even been known to have flushed, washed his hands before we even were on the second verse.

So that's it.  To think, I was only 25 when we began this journey.  I didn't know then, that I was not the only one who is capable of pooping in another person's hand.  I didn't know how many hours I would sit on a bathroom floor reading the entire Elmo potty series at least three times.  I didn't know that the character on their underwear would determine their success. I didn't know that I would risk a speeding ticket in order to get to a clean toilet in time. I didn't know that two adults would act like complete lunatics in an effort to avoid changing a dirty diaper.

I also didn't realize until now that our relentless effort resulted in my baby being capable of doing one more thing, on a growing list of things he can do without the help me.  In fact, all the time we spent reading in the bathroom has resulted in his ability to read without me too.

I spent so much time encouraging independence that I failed to realize that now, just a little bit,  I may miss his dependency.  But until his daddy, or his brothers have the stomach to be a hand bucket on the highway, I know I will always be needed for that job, and unless its in college, one I will do so....happily.

And the award goes to.....

I have a confession. I really thought I was going to win an Oscar.  When I was little I would watch the speeches just like every other little aspiring actress and would dream of the day that I would be on that stage holding the Academy Award.
I was going to thank my parents, my dog, cat and my friends.  I was going to mention the bully in my class so I could show her that being weird got me somewhere.
The thing that is weird about the Academy Awards is that most actors and actresses are shy and only want to be in the spotlight when they are playing someone other than themselves.  I am terribly shy until I get to know someone. Once that happens, it is hard to keep me quiet.   A friend of mine once compared me to a campfire. I was hard to start, but once I was lit I was on fire.
When I moved to Los Angeles I continued my acceptance speech writing. It changed as I grew older, but I always started with thanking my parents.  The problem was, I didn't know how I was going to win the award when I didn't have any job offers. I started to wonder if I was more intrigued with being recognized as a person, than any acting performance.
My speech writing came to an abrupt halt when an agent who was ready to sign me told me that he would be happy to work with me, but on one condition. That condition was that I needed to lose around 20 lbs.   He told me I was too "thick" for television and film.  I understand that sometimes ugly people look great on camera, and sometimes beautiful people look hideous.   He wanted me to take up less space to make a bigger impact. You would think it would be the other way around.
I could not have lost 20 lbs without starving myself, and the sad thing was, I considered doing it.  For perspective I was a hefty size 4. Years of a childhood dream were easily put to rest by an off handed comment that an agent said.  For as thick as I was, it broke me in two.  In retrospect, this was a perfect test.  There are several funny and talented women who come in all sizes. In fact, the actresses that are the best at their craft are the ones that transcend beyond their physical appearance.  Can anyone tell me what Maggie Smith's body type is? No, because it doesn't matter. She is brilliant, wrinkled and has so much beautifully raw talent, it is hard to keep your eyes off of her.
If I was really driven to act, then his opinion wouldn't have bothered me as much. But the truth was, I must have been looking for an excuse to get out and he gave me the perfect opportunity.  I didn't see this at the time, but shortly after that, I met Don.
My visions of an Oscar seemed to fade and the only thing I was interested in was winning Don's attention.  If he thought I was thick, it certainly didn't bother him.  He came into my life just at the right time.   By all appearances, I was doing fine, but that is where my acting ability came in handy.  I was in a very dark place and he came in and opened the blinds.   I wanted to be the girl that he saw when he looked at me.
The recognition I so desperately needed came from him and for the first time while living there, I actually felt seen. And it wasn't for doing anything. I was a cocktail waitress in college who ate cereal for dinner, but he didn't care about that.
He was the foundation I needed to build my self worth back up.
It is no coincidence that the second song we danced to at our wedding was "Brick house".  The lady's stacked and that's a fact, ain't holding nothing back.
Thirteen years later and a lot has changed. I do have an Oscar, but I had to give birth to him and he is more valuable to me than any statue could be.
Sure, I watched the red carpet arrivals, and I do have a little bit of regret for tossing in the towel so easily. Unlike most of those people, I was able to walk down my own red carpet, but it was in a church. I hope I only walk down it once too.  And if there was an academy of motherhood, I hope I would at least be nominated.  Especially after this morning when I learned that scrabbled eggs were offensive to my eight year old and my prized Oscar through a tantrum larger than any screen could capture about getting in his car seat (which he does every day).
If the Academy of Motherhood saw the hard work and dedication I put into developing this role, they certainly would be impressed. But not as impressed as I am.   This is certainly the role of a lifetime, one that requires more of me than less.  So for fun sake, here is my revamped acceptance speech.

I am thrilled  to receive this award, but honored to be nominated with all most of the other hard working mothers in this category. I wouldn't have been able to do it, if it weren't for a great supporting cast and the best supporting actor. It takes a lot of patience and it would not be possible without the help of my parents.  Nobody can prepare you for a role like this, it is the hardest thing I have ever done and there have been many times I thought about quitting. And to that bully in grade school, guess what? I handed down my weird gene, and birthed some of the most absurdly weird talented characters I know.  I'm glad you were normal, normalcy is overrated.
If my kids knew I had a blog, they would read this, but they don't because I don't want them to know just yet, that my world revolves around them.  And although this award is great, it means more to me that my husband sees me as myself first, wife second, friend third and mom last. "Mother" is a role, that would not have been possible had I not discovered who I was as a person first.
But I win this fictional award on behalf of every hard working mother who is the invisible backbone of her family.  Your work may not get you a statue to put on your mantle, but you don't need it. It would block your family pictures, which are all the recognition you need to know that you have already been rewarded.

Can I bum a cigarette?

Today I need a cigarette, and that is saying a lot since I have never smoked.  I'm just tired and anxious. Obviously tired because of lack of sleep, but mostly tired of our generation and some of the people that we cohabit with in this great nation of ours.
We have aggressively begun potty training. By all accounts this is going really well.  I choose to do it old school. Strait up underwear.  This morning, while waiting for the child in front of my car in line at preschool drop off decided to crawl in the back and play hide n seek with his mom.  I had timed it so well, but how could I account for this? Oscar had announced he had an accident. Although, I wasn't sure if he was giving me a warning shot, or if he released his full ammo.  Rather than chance it I rushed into the first public establishment I could park in front of and rushed him in.   Sure enough, it wasn't a warning shot.
I almost felt obligated to purchase a coffee because we had used the restroom.   I had mentioned when I rushed in that we were potty training.  Before I left the woman asked me if he made it, and I sadly (and I mean that, I was sad) said no. She then decided to give me some advice. "Next time he should wear pull ups."  It was then that I decided I was NOT going to buy anything from her, and if it weren't so cheesy I would have asked her if she wanted a tip. That tip would have been. " shut the F up!"  Maybe it was the way I sprinted into the coffee shop holding a toddler like a football, or the  emergency blinkers on my van because I parked illegally that made her think I wanted her advice.  She was mistaken.  Here is the deal.  Pull ups just add an extra step to the process.  Its just a diaper without sticky tabs. If he doesn't feel wet, then how is he going to learn?
This is following a rough morning when I discovered the reason Don has been sleeping so well is because he has been bed swapping with the Oscar.  Oscar comes in to our room and Don makes his sneaky exit stage right.  That leaves me with a 40 pound toddler on my head. I kind of wondered why in the middle of the night, Don never answers me when I ask him to get Oscar a drink.  Now it all makes sense.  When I discovered this,  you can imagine I was not happy and I probably set the tone for the morning.
I have been watching Downton Abbey and I'm wondering when men stopped being gentleman.  I'm not saying Don isn't a gentleman ( most of the time).  But one of the reasons I like this turn of the century show, is because there is formality and dignity in everyday activities.  It also made me wonder what ever happened to women acting like ladies?  How can we go from Lady Grantham to Snookie?  Of course, they are both fictional characters, but if the decline in the etiquette of women is a metaphor for the direction of our society, than we are already in the sewer. 
I have watched almost the first two seasons in the span of 5 days, so as you can imagine, my brain is on Downton overload.
Maybe I just long for respect.  Not between just men and women, but women and women. Not to mention, respect for oneself. Young girls feel that they need to wear booty shorts and sheer tops to get a guys attention, which takes away from the one thing they should be paying attention to, their mind.  Which leads me to the other thing that pushed me over the threshold of annoyance this morning.    I caught a glimpse of a "news" story about a woman who had lost over 150 lbs.  Her family was there, she got a make over, she had a photo shoot and was given an exotic trip to celebrate her new body.
Do we forget that she got herself there in the first place and the family that was cheering her on, is probably the same family that put the food in front of her? Yet, she is getting rewarded for her hard work in taking the weight off. Trust me, I know that is not an easy feat. But do you know what else takes a lot of hard work? NOT gaining weight in the first place.
I have struggled my entire life to remain healthy and fit.  Yes, I say struggle. No I have not been obese. But I have gained 40 lbs 4 different times with each pregnancy.  Some may say, that isn't a lot of weight to gain during pregnancy, and you know why? Because I didn't let pregnancy become an excuse to eat a bucket of fried chicken every night.  Did I want to? Of course I did, but I struggled to maintain a degree of health that would give the baby growing inside of me the best possible start. It takes determination and willpower to avoid temptations that present themselves in the form of cookies and sleep.
That isn't exciting enough though, , and I won't see a camera crew surprising me and giving me a make over for not gaining 150 pounds. But damn it, its just as hard to prevent the weight gain as it is to take it off.

All of these things were building inside me and the crescendo happened just as the woman told me that my toddler, who is the 4th child I have potty trained should be wearing a pull up.
I really really wanted to quietly drop the f bomb and get in her face and explain that she was a dumb ass.  But instead I stepped back and did what a respectful women from Downton would have done.  I smiled, thanked her for letting us use the bathroom and left. But instead of disgracing her name over tea, I'm taking to the modern day version of that which is my blog. If I had her name I would certainly have used it, but we weren't properly introduced.   And as for the cigarette I so desperately needed, I am once again, taking the less traveled road known as self restraint, and I'm sure I won't get a congratulations for NOT smoking party either.

A four muffin day

Lately I have been measuring my moods in muffins.  A good day would be a zero muffin day, a semi stressful day would be a one muffin day, but anything above two, be warned.  This would be considered a code orange. High terrorism alert, but its not terrorists that are a threat, its baked goods.
Muffins are my weakness. There is just something about cake for breakfast.  When I worked at a trendy coffee shop we sold the mega fat free muffins which were the size of a cantaloupe and I would have one or two in the course of my shift.  Back then I thought they were a green light food, but since then I have become wise of their evil ways.
One delicious crumbly muffin is like, 1500 calories or something ridunkulous like that. The reason I didn't see the effects of it back then was because that was all I was eating. I was poor.
Somehow the nutrition or diet industry has turned against all baked goods.  Especially muffins.
My best friend has sworn off dairy because she is certain it causes her skin to break out.  The great folks that I work out with only eat what cavemen ate, and a girl in my book club is a vegan.  A guy I work with is a vegetarian. I won't name any names but a certain woman who gave birth to me tried Sensa; I should link that just so you can read how farcical that concept is. A fellow mom- friend swore off caffeine and said she has never felt better. BTW- I'm not her friend anymore.
What my friends eating habits all have in common is they don't eat muffins, at least not in public. If I listened to everyone I wouldn't be able to eat anything but kale and although I like kale, its not something I turn to when I have a bad day. In fact up until recently I thought Kale was a fish.

Somehow muffins have become the objects of my affection. I miss the days when I could eat one without feeling the guilt, but I'm too far gone now.
Life is too short,  my inner voice tells me, but my mind knows my life will be even shorter if I gave into every craving I had. (Nachos, ice cream sandwiches, big huge burritos, stout beer) just to name a few.
Today I woke up at 2:30, 3:10, 4, and 5 a.m..  Not because I have insomnia but because my son has serious issues staying in his room.   We put an air mattress next to our bed but when he comes in he does a belly flop and it sounds like a seal flopping down on a giant balloon. 
Every time I wake up I look at the clock and think, "ok one more hour, think of it as a nap, an hour nap is pretty good"  I spend 10 minutes trying to convince myself of this and before I know the alarm is going off or the seal is jumping again.
I recognize that my exhaustion increases the stress I feel and more then likely my tolerance to resist muffins. But it is not just that.
I allow things to really get to me.  For example, when I dropped off my son and his childcare his teacher seemed a bit...distant.  I immediately start to wonder if I said something wrong. I have a tendency to offend people inadvertently. In fact I almost lost a friendship over a comment I made about plaid and a biscotti.  Anyway, I started to wonder if that comment I made about the snowman looking like Oprah, rubbed her the wrong way. In my defense, it did. It had a necklace, and its eyes were spaced far apart.  It is no secret I love Oprah. If that wasn't it, maybe it is my son? Is he the only one in the 2's classroom that still isn't potty trained? Do they think I'm a bad mom? Do they make him sit in a corner soon as I leave???
Following this inner dialogue I realize that I can't find a decent parking spot and its freezing outside.  As I start the mile walk from my car to my office I notice that my bra strap hurts and wonder if its because my boobs are getting bigger, or I'm getting fluffy. If my boobs are getting bigger I must be pregnant, (but that is impossible) or so I think.
I then start to wonder if it IS possible and I'm secretly happy that maybe I will get that little girl after all.  By the time I reach the half way point of my journey, I have convinced myself that I will never have a little girl and I am super depressed about it because it was all my fault to stop having children after my fourth boy.
Then the smell hits me.  I pass an eatery that has muffins in all their glory in a glass case.
For me it is like a muffin peep show and I am tempted.  I remember that I promised Don that I would stop buying food at work in an effort to bring down the $100 I spend each month in coffee.
Damn it! I resist temptation and wonder why a college educated couple has to pinch pennies so closely that I can't afford to buy the only thing I want in this world, a damn muffin.
 I haven't even reached my office yet, and I have already convinced myself, that I'm a bad mom, a bad friend, a bad wife, spade, chubby and of course, a loser.
I hate to admit this, but this is a familiar thought loop that plays in my head..sometimes louder than other times. This recording can drown out any compliment and usually does.  It is a remix of the above thoughts and sometimes I start to believe it.
If I ever heard someone talk to another person the way I talk to myself I would be appalled.  But because it is to myself it is somehow acceptable.
I realize that the reason I was having a four muffin day was completely self induced.  But why muffins? Was it because they were delicious and wonderful? Maybe it takes me to a place of comfort.
When I was working in the little coffee shop eating my muffins I didn't have a care in the world. I didn't worry about kids, I didn't worry about being an adequate wife or my future career path.  I should have been worried that I had less than $5 in my bank account, but I didn't because I knew that the tip jar would always be full at the end of my shift.  I was confident in what I was doing and I knew I could make a mean mocha. What happened? Life happened. And in my case kids. I have taken on the role as the family empatherian. This is a self elected position that absorbs all the worry, fears, anger and sadness that any particular family member feels.  I choose to be the bearer of everyone's pain so that it gives them reprieve. By the time my nine year old has sorted out his friend issues at school, I'm already conspiring  how to make a microwave muffin I saw on Pinterest just to suppress my feelings..
The paradox is that my 0 muffin stress level days were when I was actually EATING muffins.   Was I deserving of those muffins then? Yes. Am I deserving of them now? Hell yes, and then some.
Its funny that a tip jar that would have about $15 dollars in extra change is what built my confidence. Actually birthing another human didn't.  By all appearances I have grown so much since my coffee house days but in regards to my belief in my abilites, I have somehow regressed to measuring my self worth in muffins.
By this time I was about to walk in to my building.  I passed a woman who has just returned to work after having a baby and without hearing it, I could see she was attacking herself in her head.  I know I'm not alone in this, I just have a weird way of measuring it.
I asked her how she was doing.  She gave the canned answer that all new mothers do.  I said I was happy for her, but I decided to go a bit further an added that she was a good mom. For all I know, she may leave her baby with the dog, but because I sensed her worry she must be a good mom.  Just like that her eyes welled up and she said thanks.  I had instantly filled her tip jar.
Hearing myself say that to another woman I was able to reflect it back to myself and somehow, I heard it.  
I liked the way it sounded. What I hear in my head are just thoughts,that I have manifested into fact, facts that no one believes, except me... (At least I hope nobody believes them or hears them for that matter. )
If its that easy, I'm going to try and do it more often.  I decided to make a detour and get a muffin. Not a huge one, just one that was large enough to fill me up.
I have earned the right to have my cake and eat it too.

Off limits

The school that I attended as a kid was set on an enormous piece of land. When the weather was nice, we were set free to roam. We would play capture the flag and the safe area was a center patch of trees.  Once on the island I knew I was safe and everybody knew they couldn't touch me.
At our house, my body some how has become home base.  If any child at one time is touching me he has amnesty from any harm at the hands of his brothers until he lets go. This has proven to be difficult when I'm trying to make dinner and have 2 or more boys holding on to my legs.

Everyday when I arrive at work I settle in by getting a cup of coffee and reading the news.  Despite my therapist's strong suggestion to avoid news because most of the time it isn't news unless its tragic. 
I came across the story of a kindergartener who was taken hostage by a gunman from his school bus.  Of course this is following numerous school shootings. Under that headline was a story of a two month old who was kidnapped and next to that story was a man who beat his toddler to death.
My mind is racing and my heart is heavy and  I can't seem to move past it. I have become consumed with anger and I must know, is anyone off limits anymore?
Even on a sinking ship women and children get priority.  Today women may not be held at such a high importance on the list because most of the time they can take care of themselves, (and everyone else around them), but when did children, even babies get thrown in as fair game as the targets of ones rage?
This should go without saying, but apparently it needs to be said again. 

My children, your children, our children, are OFF LIMITS.

I wouldn't have dreamed that the recent victims of the worst tragedies in our history have been kids,
most the age of a kindergartener. It is also the age of my Jack. Let me paint a picture of what that age looks like.  Last night he had a bad dream about a tyrannosaurus and slept next to my bed.  This morning I woke him up by nuzzling in his mess of blond hair and rubbing his back. His first sleepy words were "mommy." He ate strawberries for breakfast with chocolate milk. He had a break down (much in-part to the sleep deprivation) because he didn't want to make his bed because he technically didn't sleep in it.  He kissed me goodbye when I dropped him off at school.
Is this the profile of someone on a hit list?
Maybe this isn't new, and the media is exploiting children for ratings. I don't recall such horrific acts of violence towards babies in my lifetime until now.  Isn't there a gentleman's agreement that children are just not part of the game?
I wish the people who are responsible for these crimes could see that I don't view them as a misfit, or a bad guy or even a villain. I view them as cowards, weak and unreservedly pathetic to prey on a child.  I also think the media should not exploit these criminals because that is what they want.  The outcome remains the same so do we really need to know who they are?
I am not an advocate for guns and if anyone attempted to harm one of my boys I am confident I wouldn't need one.
I haven't spent time in prison, (believe it or not) but from what I understand is that even amongst some of the worst criminals an act against a woman or child is still considered to be an abomination only to be settled in the court of the prisoners and unlike kids, they have the wherewithal to fight back.
Unfortunately, most of the cowards kill themselves before they can face the consequence. 
The increasing trend to kidnap, kill or hurt children has reached a point that even the worst criminal should see that the only statement they are making when they hide behind a gun and kill a kid is that they are pathetic, sad souls.
We need a break from this violence and be able to trust that our schools are their island of safety. And  always know that no matter how far they stray, you will always be their home base.
 

Kiss my grits, World.

Can you sue someone for exposing you, unwillingly, to an environment that makes you so stressed out you want to eat gobs and gobs of chocolate?  And the reason you have access to the chocolate is because it is placed in a bowl 5 feet away from your desk for mass consumption?
I know a few lawyers, I might look into that.
Last night I was awakened at least four or five different times. The first time was from my bladder. The second was the dog's bladder and the third, fourth and fifth was a toddler.  We placed a small air mattress next to our bed so that when he gets scared he can come into our room but not sleep in our bed, or on my head as it turns out.
He decided to tell me that he didn't like the bed. "No Bed, Mommy's Bed" at a volume loud enough for me to hear, but apparently not for Don's ears.  Don has been working on Oscar's speech.  When he wants something he has to ask the entire question " May I have some more apple juice please?"  This two second phrase takes him about 5 minutes and he decided to practice it at 3 in the morning. MAY.......I........HAVE........SOME.......MORE......APPLE........JUICE.....PLEASE.
After the fourth or fifth time, Don heard him and got him a drink.
Before I knew it my alarm was going off and it was time for me to go to Crossfit. If you are not familiar with Crossfit it is a place you go to get your ass handed to you.
By 5:30 I was running suicides and by 5:45 I was dead-lifting 195 lbs. 
When I get back home I am greeted by Don mumbling something about coffee and one or all of my sons who are shocked that I would leave the house so early and not place breakfast on the table before I left. Followed by a simultaneous breakfast order that I am expected to immediately fill.  I wish I had a little bell and I would ring it for Mel to come around the corner and I would say " kiss my grits". Even Mel in his sailor hat couldn't keep up with my boys who must have a tape worm living inside of them.
Note* That Alice reference just shows you how crammed my brain is with useless information, especially from a show that was created before I was born.
In one of my first job interviews, I was asked  if I could have one super power what would it be. First of all, that is such a dumb interview question.  I don't remember what I said, but I'm sure it was something stupid like flying. If asked again, I would say I want a pause button.
The only catch would be that if I paused the world around me, they wouldn't age but I would. So if I paused it, say 2 hours every day for a nap then after about a month I will have aged 2 days longer than everyone else, and that wouldn't be good.
I digress.
The pause button would allow me to collect my thoughts and come up with something really witty in response to something that my boss said to me. Or allow me to take an uninterrupted shower without hearing phantom kids calling my name. Every time I step in the shower I think I hear someone screaming my name, even when they are not home. 

Getting everyone in the car and to school/daycare on time every day is an act of divine intervention. This morning Fin told me he HAD to show me a flasher on the internet. As alarming as that sounded, I felt I needed to look. It was an origami thing. He is slightly obsessed with origami and a flasher is a thing... (I can't even describe it). Anyway Jeremy Shafer (orgami guru, and Fin's idol) recommends a special paper for the flasher and you can only get it by calling this number in San Fransisco because they don't have a website.  After I looked at it, I said no, so he was pouting and repeating that he NEEDS a FLASHER from SAN FRANSISCO.
By the time I arrive at work, I feel like I have already put in a full day and I'm ready for a nap. Hence the pause button.
Life moves too fast. I need to figure out a way to slow it down.  Despite the San Francisco flasher, I know that the majority of my stress is self imposed.  I am the only one who can let things get to me enough to cause me stress.  What is it exactly that I'm yearning for? Perfection? Maybe perfection is more about the journey and less about the result.  Maybe all the bumps in the road are meant to slow me down because if the road was smooth,  I would probably be pretty dull, which would result in my kids being even more dull.  The chocolate that tempts me every time I pass it may be an effort for me to stop and talk to the office assistant.  Or a covert operation to fill my mouth so I stop talking, who knows. 
If I have a point, it would be this. Lack of sleep, demanding boys, annoying bosses, origami, apple juice and  useless sitcom knowledge have all led me to this place right here, doing what I love...writing. Besides, if I didn't have any bumps I would have nothing to write about.

My infinite clock

Yesterday my alarm clock failed me.  Every week day I set it for 5 a.m. and like an old friend it never fails me.  I get up, reset it for Don and go to the gym.  This particular morning I woke up on my own at 5:40 to a flashing clock. But it wasn't flashing 12:00 it was flashing 3:14.
I reset it for Don and was on my way.  When I returned at 6:45 the house was dark.  Again, the clock was flashing 3:14. Why the clock is flashing the three most significant digits of π in the decimal form is beyond me.  It did remind me of why I work out in the morning, especially after the holidays.
I was very upset about this.  I unplugged it and plugged it in. Still 3:14.  He said we really didn't need it anymore because we have our iphones and we can use them from now on. He was not going to fix it this time.  He had glued and taped it over the years, and this was his deceleration to get rid of it.

I have had this alarm clock from April 7, 1992. My grandmother gave it to me for my 15th birthday when she  learned that my mom was still waking me up for school.  She said it was time I got myself up.   Through the years it has traveled with me to 3 states, and so many apartments I can't keep them straight.  It has old stickers on the side of it.  It has absolutely no decorative integrity whatsoever.
But it has been a staple in many different decors on my nightstand.  Thank goodness it can't talk.
Still, it has woken me up for some of the most important days of my life.
The day I got my drivers license. My high school graduation, my college graduation, my wedding day, my first job interview, three scheduled c-sections, numerous flights, and it has never failed.

It sounds crazy to be attached to an object, but I can't help but be.  I looked online to see if I could get it fixed.  There is no trace of it ever even existing. And to think that it was pretty revolutionary back then because it had nature sounds (which I never figured out how to use).  In fact, to this day Don has never figured out how to use it, I personally think it his attempt to avoid getting up.

If a clock can have significance, this one to me, was the beginning of my independence.  Whether or not my grandma thought of it that way, I'm not certain. She may have been annoyed with my mom's attempt at keeping me a child, or my resistance to acting like an adult. Whatever her reasoning, it worked.

My grandma died from a very aggressive form of cancer in 1997. Of all the important things my clock woke me up for, she was only able to witness one.  She never knew I graduated from college (at the time, my behavior would not have predicted any collegiate pursuits).  She never knew of Don and I know she would have loved him.  Although the last words I ever said to her were "so many men, so little time". She laughed out loud, little did I know how little time there really was.

All of this occurred to me as I was about to unplug my clock for the last time.  Sometimes you forget how much you miss someone until out of nowhere you want to call them and you can't. Today is one of those days.

As much as I don't want to admit, its a testament that I'm old enough where appliances I have stop functioning because they are old, not because they are broken. I kind of understand why my dad still has his ugly transistor radio with a dial.  You never know when you may want to listen to the radio and a plug isn't readily available...

It has given me no choice but to forge ahead.  I used my phone's alarm this morning and kept waking up for fear it may fail me.  I don't trust a fully charged cell phone, yet for the past 20 years I put all my trust in an electronic that couldn't function if the power went out.

I don't like to hold on to things that don't work, even if it has some memories attached.  I will throw it away and move on with the times ( pun intended).  Anyone who knows me, knows I am a bit superstitious. So I started thinking about the number that flashed 3:14.  It may mean different things to different people, but to me it represents an infinite number.

My grandmas gift was more than just a clock, it woke me up for the best days of my life, and I like to think that was her little nudge each morning. Thanks to her, I am an early riser, I will admit some days were dark or sad and some I would like to have forgotten completely, but regardless of the outcome, each day is worth waking up for.

Belief In More Than Santa

We were on our way to church when Parker asked us (and the entire van) if Santa was real.

I may be alone on this, but on the day he was born, I voiced this as one of the moments I was dreading most. I am still recovering from when I was nine and cornered my mom demanding the truth. She thought she would deliver the bundle package and include the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy in the discussion for good measure. My world changed. Being the youngest, I felt like a fool and that I had been lied to by everyone who I cared most about.

I didn't want Parker to feel this way and he was becoming more and more articulate in his accusations. Later that night, Don and I agreed it was time we told him the truth. I did online research. I came across a cute letter that a mom had written to her daughter which explained that Santa is real, but only in spirit and that parents help him spread his cheer by delivering his gifts. In the end it congratulated the girl for being part of a special club to extend Christmas cheer.

It seemed perfect, so I copied it and added a few threats to make it applicable to our family. Bold type which said, "You must never tell your brothers this secret or the Christmas spirit will be lost."

That might have been a bit much.

The opportune moment presented itself as two of his younger brothers were upstairs playing and the other was downstairs.

I told him I needed to see him in our bedroom to put the acid on his foot. He has a persistent wart he has eagerly declared war on. Don followed with the letter. As I put the medicine on his heel, Don started reading. I couldn't look at Parker. Once I did glance up, I saw confusion on his face. I instantly regretted opening this topic.

Finally when he did speak, he was argumentative. Years and years of convincing had apparently been successful and he was not only defending his Santa, he was angry that we would slander his name. He hopped around on one foot and told us we were wrong and that he had proof, reciting all the evidence (we had left) that he had accumulated to defend his argument. In the past few years, we have gone a bit over the top in an exaggerated attempt to keep their belief in Santa alive. I'm sure inflicting physical pain along with his emotional pain wasn't my best choice. And I'm also now wondering why we worked so hard to protect him from the truth.

I was sliding down a slippery slope and the next thing out of his mouth was, "Whoever wrote this letter sucks!" I told him I did, and he just stared at me. I got his drift.

Don took this opportunity to leave. Once the door was shut Parker crumpled into a ball and sobbed. I now know more then ever that he is truly my son. I felt his pain. He is our oldest and takes his role seriously, he feels that he needs to be strong and never cries, but right now, you wouldn't know it because he was crying so loudly.

I felt a bit of his innocence drift away. This is on the heels of one of our nations worst shootings. I have been an emotional wreck. The magnitude of what has happened and the reality of it has rocked the foundation of our nation and certainly my faith in humanity.

Between sobs, Parker asked me if God was real. I said yes, but I'm reluctant to say, with a little hesitation. He asked if Jesus was real. I said yes.

"But you just told me Santa wasn't real and I can't see him. I can't see Jesus or God, so they must not be real either."

I explained that in this case, just because you can't see something doesn't mean you stop believing in it. When you stop believing, you begin to lose faith -- and sometimes faith is all we have.

This conversation had gone much deeper than I was expecting. After a brief pause he asked if what happened to the kids in Connecticut was because they stopped believing.

There it was.

This wasn't just about learning the truth about Santa, it was learning the unspeakable truth about the harshness of life, something I couldn't protect him from. He had learned about the shootings when he came downstairs late Friday night and witnessed his parents crying while watching the evening news.
We were honest, but vague and it seemed that he handled the news well. A few days had gone by and it occurred to him that one of his younger brothers is the same age as the kids that were killed. In his young impressionable mind, he worried that if he stopped believing, it could happen to us.

At this point, I started to cry, too. For a few minutes we just laid there. I remembered how only nine years ago in this very same bed I would lie next to him and stare at his little face for hours and pinch myself that I was so blessed to have him in my life. And after the events on Friday to still have him in my life.
I told him that God was too good. He believes in us even when we fail to believe in him. I told him he was safe, in an effort to believe it myself.

He cuddled up next to me and asked if he could still believe in Santa. Whether or not he does, it is a metaphor for believing in goodness he can't see and an attempt to remain innocent in a world that right now feels anything but. I squeezed him a little tighter.

When I was nine, I had felt my reality changed, but as I look at Parker at the same age, a haunting reality exists which includes innocent lives being taken. He is empathetic to his colleagues of his generation. Our world has changed. When I questioned humanity, I didn't realize that I was jeopardizing my own faith. The answer was looking at me with watery eyes. I have infinite belief in my son and the goodness in children who will have grown tired of violence and who will move toward peace as the only option to restore faith in our world. How can I question humanity when we look into the eyes of our kids.

Just like Parker, I will choose to still believe. 

My Lifetime Movie

Lifetime was put on this planet for it's holiday movies. With creative titles such as Christmas Eve, Eve was the young ingenue's name, (of course). Or, It's a Wonderful Lifetime.  Despite my efforts, I find it impossible to turn away.  Can my fascination with these movies be traced to a deep hope that they are based on a true story?
Most Lifetime movies have one woman who is an ad executive or a party planner and is intimidated by her high power female boss. In order to make a successful movie, there must be at least 2 very attractive men who the woman can't decide between.  Acute dog is a must.
As well as a fall on the ice, which results in a coma where eventually she will wake up and realize it was all a dream.
What does this say about American Women? That we all strive for a job in the middle (at best) of the pay scale, we can't run in heels, and we hope a modelesque man will rescue us from it all? Ok, Guilty as charged.
Why isn't my life made into a Lifetime holiday movie? My name does, after all, mean Christmas.
It could start off with my husband and I discovering that it is Dec. 1 and we haven't been shopping for anyone, so we drop the boys off at Grandmas and head to Toys R Us. There, we are stuffed in an overcrowded, overheated fire hole arguing over how many presents Santa brings vs. Mommy and Daddy. After an eternity, we have gone way over our budget and go home to wrap gifts from Santa and sign his name with our left hands.  All in an effort to suspend the belief that we would allow an old fat stranger into our house while we slept. Have they not noticed how many times I lock the doors and set our security alarm at night? I won't even mention how many times I have woken up in a panic because we have forgotten to move Henry, our damn elf on the God damn shelf. Excuse my cursing, but last night was one of those nights and I am tired.
The next morning wasn't much better.  It came as a shock to me that it snowed, despite numerous posts by friends, and the weather channel. But when I needed to get the boys in their boots I had to dig in an area of the basement that I would rather not set foot in. I found what I could and managed to convince the boys that the only reason their boots were tight was because they hadn't worn them in a while.  I sent them all to the garage and gathered my coat, coffee and keys. I was in the house long enough to witness our dog throw up, and now I know where all of our missing socks have gone. I picked up the regurgitated sock and threw it outside, with every intention to deal with it later.   By the time I got into the van they were laughing hysterically at a phrase they had made up. In the time it took me to get out the door they had said "Big Fluffy Donkey Dick" what I would guess, 400 times.  I really don't know and don't want to know, if they know what a dick is, and I waited until we were 1 minute from school to tell them to never ever repeat that at school or our elf will tell Santa.  The first thing Jack said to his teacher as she got him out of the van was, you guessed it, "Big Fluffy Donkey Dick". She looked much less alarmed than I would have expected. Next, I was on my way to drop off Oscar at his school.  He is not the most articulate 2 year old, but you wouldn't have known that by how clear he said "Big Fluffy Donkey Dick". Just prior to getting out of the car I realized that I had put all of his winter gear on, hat, gloves, heavy coat, and I had completely forgotten socks and shoes.  Barefoot in the middle of winter in the Midwest. Now that I think of it, that might have been the sock the dog puked up.  Thankfully they had an extra pair of socks at school and they don't ask questions.
Now that is the nitty-gritty stuff that would give actual life to Lifetime. 

That evening was the holiday party where instead of a cute designer mini dress (no Lifetime movie is complete without one), I wore a sparkly sweater that I found on sale at Forever 21. Admittedly, I have NO business shopping there.  I was really enjoying myself at the party until my boss showed up.  He made a bee line to me and seamlessly continued a conversation we were having at the office 4 hours prior.  Except, by this time I had consumed at least 3 vodka tonics and my classy filter quits at 5 o'clock, resulting in several F-bomb drops and me telling him what I really thought about gun control.  Note:  The topic had nothing to do with gun control.

To be honest, I find the holidays kind of sad. I love the songs, the decorations, friends and family, but somehow there is a undercurrent of nostalgia that gets swept further away as every year passes.

By the time our holiday party was winding down and I had graduated to Sangria,  I was approached by a decent looking man. (Remember, no movie is complete without at least 2.)  He told me that he had been wanting to talk to me all night. I had met him casually before, but I couldn't' have told you his name (thanks to the moonshine, I still can't).  He told me that our boys walk past his house all the time and wanted to tell me a story.  Oh no....I almost blurted out "Big Fluffy Donkey Dick" just so I could say it before him. Thankfully I didn't, he went on to say that they were two of the most polite boys he had met. Not only that, the oldest one looks out for the younger one when they cross the street. He went on to tell me at least 3 or 4 stories of how the boys have entertained their  toddler daughter, warned them about their backyard gate being open, or offered to help carry in groceries.  With each story I found the tears building and building and I was fighting back the urge to creep into the ugly pride cry.
As a parent, you don't get a performance review. You are your own boss, and this is scary when young lives are on the line.  After the morning I had had, I am pretty sure Parenting magazine won't be asking me for a cover shoot.
But to hear this, from a neighbor I hardly know was enough to give me the confidence that I'm not doing such a bad job. Even more than anything it gave me the confidence and enormous pride that despite what happens at home on any given morning, the boys behave like little gentleman even when they know that Henry the elf, or I can't see them.
I don't expect a call from a Lifetime movie director either, but if they would just take a chance, it may turn out as the best lifetime movie ever made, that is unless this is a dream and I'm in a coma, if that is the case, please don't ever wake me.