Beast Mode

If you follow my blog you may recall a post I made about why I love Crossfit.  Up until then it was kind of my dark little secret.  Like a super power I only let a certain number of people know about, including my family.   In my life I have gotten excited about a lot of things that have been short lived.  My friend calls it my Step Brother's moment.  In the movie Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly get so excited about making bunk beds "so much room for activities!" and it results in the top bunk falling and "blood everywhere!" In other words, my ideas are short lived and usually come crashing down.  But I have just finished a year of it and I still can't get enough.  When I heard about an all women's competition I decided (with the strong coercion of my new friends) to participate.  I signed up and began worrying about it for the next 6 weeks.

The day arrived and there were 100 women from all over the Midwest.   I envisioned 99 women with huge muscles barreling through the door ready to kick some ass. Although some did have huge muscles, the one thing everyone had in common was strength. Regardless of  age, shape or size all were there to kick some ass, their own.  

Doing something out of your comfort zone requires a bit of fearlessness.  The morning of, I was nervous and excited,. Wondering what I should eat just in case I puke it up in front of everyone.  I looked at everyone around me and was convinced that I was going to finish in the bottom two.  Obviously, I wasn't in it to win it, but I certainly wasn't in it to lose it either.    What is a Crossfit competition like?  This is my take.

The energy was palpable, how could it not be with a huge mass of women in one place?  There were different heats of scaled and prescribed workouts. I chose scaled because I felt I was too young to die.   Once it began something crazy happened. The competition became more of a celebration of  strength and sexiness.   Women pushing themselves to do things that previously were inconceivable.
I invited my parents.  They had no idea what to expect.  Up until this point my mom thought it was a gymnastics class. They loved it and I loved having them there.  It's not too often, as an adult, that your parents can cheer you on.  As a kid they sat through endless sporting events and I could always hear my Dad screaming my name.  He stood against the wall as I started my second WOD (workout of the Day).  The total length was only 10 minutes but to give you an idea, this is what those 10 minutes looked like.

10 jumping pullups,
20 burpees,
40 wallballs, 10 lbs.
90 single jump rope,
50 kettlebell 26 lb. swings
and
2 clean and jerks 65 lb.
At least that was what my 10 minutes looked like.  There were women that did 4x as many clean and jerks as me.

I began strong. I could see my Dad peripherally.  But when I got to my biggest challenge (wall balls) the familiar sound of his voice brought me back to the soccer field in high school and refueled my spirit.  I could hear him screaming my name over the crowd.  Cheering for something he had no idea about, but could tell I was giving it everything I had.  Hearing the familiar howl of my name pushed me through the pain. And the word pain is putting it lightly.
When I turned around I could see him, now, no longer against the wall but standing up on something so he could see me and I could see him.  I will admit there was an element of concern in his face. After all, he is witnessing his 36 year old daughter, the mother of 4 of his grandchildren, lift some crazy amount of weight and veins popping out of her forehead.  It blew his mind. Afterwards I approached him and  his usual delicate hug was now big bear one. He was speechless.
The day continued and I lost my voice because I was cheering for anyone and everyone.  There were several men chosen as judeges and several just there to watch.  Mesmerized by these women, not just for their appearance but for their drive. Busting the myth that sexy girls only come in one size. According to my husband (who volunteered to take pictures of the event) he had never seen so many crazy sexy girls in one place. I agree.  And I know he has been to one or two bachelor parties in Vegas, so I considered that a well educated conclusion.

My mom was able to meet up with my dad for my last workout.  A dead lift ladder. After I assured my Dad it wasn't an actual ladder,  and that there were several doctors in the house, it put his mind at ease. It was 15 barbells increasing in weight. Starting at 65 lbs. to 205 lbs. You had 1 minute to lift each one.  My mom stood at a distance and traveled with me to each station.  Although she used to cheer for me as a kid, she was mute.  When I glanced over at one point she had her hands covering her mouth and the look of terror.  For all she knew I was going to break in half.  Even I don't understand how I could lift something very close to double my weight, but I did.
Afterwards, she gave me a big hug, and held on, thankful that I was still in one piece. Although she is and was as strong as me, her generation of women never displayed it.  Women were considered the weaker sex, both mentally, intellectually and certainly physically. I really don't believe they ever were, they were never given the opportunity to display it. In fact it was considered ugly if they did.

But here I was, the age she was when she had me, being celebrated for things that her generation believed only men should do.
I learned so much that day, when I walked in I thought I was competing against these women and when I walked out I realized we were all in it together.  Competing against conventional stereotypes.
I challenge anyone to watch one of these events and not leave with complete admiration for the participants.
As I was leaving a friend of mine came up and congratulated me.  His said  "Congratulations!, You are a Beast!".  Just a year ago I would have been completely offended by that because I always wanted to be considered the Beauty.

This day made me realize I can take pride in being both.

The comment that saved my life

To expel the last bit of energy my two youngest had bottled up inside them, I decided to take them to the park.  It was 7:30, their usual bedtime, but since the beginning of the summer, (and in the absence of my husband) bedtime had slipped an hour...or two.  We were the only ones there and the boys were busy running in circles until a woman showed up with her son. Within 3 minutes we were talking and in the entirety of those 3 minutes she expressed so much self hatred.  She mentioned how her toe nails were not painted because she didn't have time.  How her hair fell out after she had her son and it hasn't grown back, and how she was so fat that she doesn't even look in the mirror any more.   What is odd is that we were talking about the Oscar Meyer wiener mobile when all this came out.  It was as if she was pointing out what she thought was obvious before I noticed. Which honestly, I thought she was kind of pretty and wouldn't have noticed her hair, weight and especially toes, if she had not mentioned it.
 I don't think I have ever had a conversation with any woman who didn't put herself down. Granted I don't know many super models, but I'm sure they would have something bad to say about themselves too.  It is normal, accepted and even encouraged when in the company of other woman.  In the ladies room you never hear a woman say to another, "I am really happy with the way my hair turned out" or
"I cannot get over how great my butt looks in these pants". If I did hear those things I would have a  heart attack because I would assume I had walked in the Men's room (again). I don't really know what goes on in the Men's restroom,  although I have found myself in one at a club in Hollywood, but I got kicked out.  That is an entirely different blog post. Moving on.
Poor self image and eating disorders run in my family.  I'm not entirely innocent in the self hatred talk. But most of the time its in my head.
When I was in third grade our school was participating in the Presidential Fitness Awards.  It was something I was really good at, in fact the best. One of the challenges was to see how long you could hold your chin about a bar while the gym teacher timed you.  I could have stayed up there twice as long as I did, but I got bored.  It included jumping jacks, sit ups, push ups.   Part of the challenge was that you had to get your height and weight taken.  I remember sitting in the hallway with all the little girls in my class waiting. I was toward the end of the line and the girls started coming out announcing their weight.  I don't remember what it was but probably around 65 or 70 lbs.   Since all the girls were getting around the same number they started the 65 club and were laughing and talking.
When it was my turn to go in I stepped in the nurses office and got on the scale.  It was a good 10 lbs over what the other girls weighed.
I let out a moan and hung my head.  My teacher asked me what was wrong. I told her that I was fat and ugly.  She got really serious and looked me in the eye and said I was the strongest little girl she knew. She reminded me all the great things my body did over the course of the challenge and  how great I was at soccer.  She said the scale is just a number.
When I went out to the hall and didn't announce my weight the girls snickered. Looking back at pictures, I was a really normal looking girl, but never skinny.  My acceptance to the 65 club was denied and I ate lunch alone.  It's funny what hurts you as a kid.  As I sat alone on the playground I thought about what the gym teacher told me.  Was she right?   Sure I was strong, but who cares?  Boys were suppose to be strong, girls were suppose to be skinny.  I started doing things on the playground just to see if she was right.  I could beat anyone running, and I won almost all the arm wrestling contests. Except with Adam....but that was because I liked him.
I started to realize that she was right.   I was strong.   I carried her statement with me through high school and college.  It not only helped me when I realized that my body wasn't what I saw in magazines, but emotionally when I thought I was weak.  I even surprised myself when I was able to break free from an inebriated guy who pulled me down on his lap when I was a cocktail waitress.  Apparently my strength surprised him too.  Not as much as the bouncer that took him out though.
Kids believe what you tell them. Good or bad.
I repeated my mantra  with me during birth, surgeries and some horrible losses.  I have taken ownership of it and after so many years it is a quality I take pride in.
I'm scared to think about where I would be if my gym teacher would have just let me insult myself.  Brushed it off, as something that all girls say.  Nobody had ever told me I was strong and I would have been so caught up in the things I "wasn't", that I wouldn't have noticed the things I "was".
It took one positive comment in the hay stack of negatives that stuck with me.
I don't know if Ms. Mack knows how her comment changed the course of my life.  Can you imagine if her comment towards me in that situation would have been derogatory? There was a 50/50 chance and I would have believed her either way.
I don't have daughters so I don't know if things have changed in regards to body acceptance but I doubt it. I have a niece who mentioned she needed to lose weight and I made sure to ignore that and mention what a beautiful unique voice she has. And I wasn't just referring to her tone, but in general. She has a voice that needs to be heard.
When I hear my friends put themselves down it makes me wish they had had a Mrs. Mack moment.  As much as I can identify with distain for muffin tops, I try not to indulge because the more you tell yourself something you are only solidifying it into a truth. I would rather talk about what they are good at.
After 20 minutes or so I decided it was time to get the boys home.  Jack ran over and gave both of us a bouquet of bark, grass, mulch and a lily he had picked from the landscape.  I thanked him but while I was  looking for a discreet place to toss it, she had found a paper cup by the trash bin and was putting her bouquet in it. It reminded me that kids not only are listening, but watching.  I decided to put my mulch in the my pocket until we got home. She was so touched that he did that. She may feel like she wasn't  anything to look at, but through the eyes of a 6 year old she certainly was.

I'm not dead!

In 2007 we purchased our minivan and it was at that point I decided that my ability to be attractive to anyone other than a toddler was over.   Despite millions and millions of minivans being on the road they are invisible.  Except to me. I notice them because I have newer minivan envy. Well actually, more like non-dented minivan envy.  Too many trash bins have jumped out if front of me and it has resulted in several dings.
A few months ago I met an old flame for lunch. He is very very aware that I am in a committed relationship  marriage and have a google of kids.  Yet when it was time to walk to our cars I was resistant to saddle up in my carriage.  It is such a cock block to feeling even remotely vital.  Just a hope that I haven't turned in my desirable card just yet.  Don't get me wrong, I am not trying to pick up anybody,  the last thing I need to check off on my to do list is " have affair" but it would still be nice to know that I am attractive to the opposite sex. Or the same sex,  it doesn't matter, as long as it gives me a temporary reminder that I am not dead or turned into Angela Lansbury overnight.

I have always enjoyed fashion, so I enjoy putting outfits together, even if most of them involve black pants.   I know that when Don reads this he will be upset because he thinks he tells me that I look good, but the truth is, he expects me to hear his thoughts.   When I ask him if he likes a dress I am wearing he will say " yes, I told you that." Um no, he didn't but at least he thought it.   But by that time I don't believe him and I have already changed four times.

Lately I have had some odd exchanges with men and I make it a point to tell Don about it.  The other day I was at the grocery store with a cart full of boys and a side of groceries and a man asked if I would like to go ahead of him.  Which really made no sense to me and apparently my facial expression was along the lines of "WTF?" He explained to me that I looked like I was in a rush. ( well, duh) Except his line wasn't any faster. Anyway, the great exchange continued. He told me that I shouldn't have to buy flowers for myself. He also shared that he can make the best iced coffee ( I was drinking one at the time).  He even walked us to the parking lot.   The boys didn't seem to notice or care that I was in a middle-age scenario of a bad night at the Roxy.  What did he expect me to do? Invite him over between Team Umi-Zoomi and Henry Higglmonster?   His name was Rod and he wore paisley boxers.  I know this because he had his name on his shirt and had a huge rip in his jeans.   I wouldn't have been interested in this guy even if I was single and very desperate, but it didn't stop me from texting Don along with a  very far away picture of the guy telling Don that this guy was hitting on me.  His response? "Perfect! You have always liked ripped jeans" 

No, that was not the reaction I was hoping for.  Once in the car the boys asked if that guy was going to make me coffee.  Apparently they were listening. However, even they didn't sense the oddness of this entire situation.  Sure boys, lets go get iced coffee from Mr. Dateline Craiglist momnapper 

Another incident happened when I was at a bounce house.  Oscar was wearing a " Number 1 Fan of Mommy" shirt.  when we got to the entrance to the bouncy house the guy, who might have been 19 if he was lucky,  leaned down to Oscar and looked at me and said " I think I'm a fan of mommy too".  Super creepy and gross, but it was more ammunition to fire at Don via text.  "A teenager just told me he is a fan of….me."  Don's response, " Are you wearing the Red Sox shirt I sent you?" 

I am screaming at the top of my lungs (over text message) I AM STILL SEXY SEE????  Yet,  he is not biting. 

I think there seems to be a communication break down between people who have been married for at least 10 years.  The majority of my friends and I have talked and the bottom line is,  we want our husbands to still find us attractive. That is it.  Yet I would say the same half of my friends feel the opposite. That our husbands just don't. 

Maybe Don views my desperate attempts to prove that I am not dead in the sexy department more like Lucy trying to convince Ricky that she is French Mademoiselle after she discovered a new wig shop.  He goes along and does not encourage my behavior. 

I love men. I can find something attractive about most (except ripped jeans) but I still hold my man at the very top of my esteem.  The fact that I shop for most of his clothes may be a big part of it. But even if he still wore the hideous shirt he picked out that looks like a man in coffee hour after the 8 a.m. church service, I would still find him sexy.

I used to ask him all the time when he was a bartender in LA if any women ever hit on him. His answer was always no. He credited his loyal following to his ability to make a great Cosmo. Now I don't even ask, he still has loyal following, granted they are 8 year olds and because he has the final say on who gets to feed the classroom pet. 

Despite what every talk show would tell you. Women like knowing their husband or "man" is attractive to the opposite sex. It gives us reassurance that we caught a good one, and he only wants for us.  What Don knew even back then was that if he mentioned anyone hitting on him I would always turn it around to be his fault.  So either, he is completely oblivious and not a single woman has flirted with him in the 14 years we have known each other, or he spares me the details. 

The fact that he makes that much of an effort to preserve my feelings lets me know that driving a minivan didn't kill my attractiveness. That he is affectionate even after seeing me at my worst, (trust me, it was NOT pretty) should be enough to make me feel desirable. 

When I text him about the men..(some may be 95 years old and blind) that pay me a compliment,  it just feeds his ego, more than mine and I must find comfort in knowing that he trusts me implicitly.

That is nice, but next time I go out of my way to wear his favorite dress it would be nice to hear it with my ears rather than telepathically. At least I know I will have another 70 years with him to make that point clear but hopefully at time, I really won't be dead.. 

Parental Facebook Crashers

I often wonder what my parents would have posted if Facebook would have been around when I was growing up.  If there is a prayer of thanks I should say every night, it should include gratitude for the fact that it wasn't.
My mom was a stay home mom, which meant I was a stay at home kid. Which very well could have meant that I was very annoying to her at times. In fact I know I was. I often heard my mom make excuses for me like, "my daughter is hyper active." Or say things like "that isn't her real voice, she just likes making up voices to throw people off "
I blame it on being the youngest. My brother and sister were off doing their things, my sister was working her way up the corporate ladder at Taco Bell and my brother was rehearsing and singing.  So not exactly your typical upbringing. I never did complain about the pintos "n" cheese she brought home  or to the candy my mom would give me to be quiet during my brother's performance.  But being the only child at home most of the time,  I was given more freedom. Freedom without limitations to our  refrigerator which back then was stocked with Tab. Hyperactivity explained, and actually, that would explain the voices too.
So thankfully all my childhood oddities weren't captured in cyberspace like my kids are.
However, my parents, now in their seventies, are on Facebook.  My dad has two accounts because he forgot his password on his first one.  Yes, I suggested just creating a new password but he said he couldn't because he couldn't log in.  My mom has only one account thank goodness, but that is because they have a piece of paper (longer than my CVS receipt) of account passwords next to their computer.   I have often been to their home for dinner when my dad slips away during the salad so he can fire up his computer to use after dessert.
Recently however they have begun to do something that I find utterly confusing.  My mom is the sweetest mother a daughter could ask for. Always offering words of encouragement.  My dad is equally encouraging but on a much quieter scale. I have never heard my dad comment on my hair or my shape.
But lately he has been posting some pretty thoughtful, yet un-Dadlike things on my photos or status updates.  Like "You are a sweetheart xoxox" or "what a great shot!"
My dad recently turned 77 so I thought maybe he was getting a little sensitive. I know that when my grandpa got older he became more sensitive too, like sensitive to my financial situation in college and would slip me 20 dollar bills across the table.  Yet, he also had dementia and would quickly instruct me to put the money in my shoe. I would have put it in my ear if he would have told me to.
I chalked my Dad's recent openness was just one of the many perks of getting older, until his comments which are next to his picture also said "xoxo Mom"
Apparently my mom has been logging on to Facebook after my dad hasn't logged off and writing comments. It may sound cute, when talking to their daughter. However, when my dad wrote on my friends wall and wished her a happy birthday and suggested they go to lunch, that is when it got weird.
Of course my dad wasn't publicly hitting on my beautiful single friend, it was my mom.
So I have to wonder if having my parents on Facebook as an adult with children is worse than if they would have had it in the 80's.  Now for example, if I post a picture of my son doing something funny I can bet each of my phones will be called, and if not reached the same message will be left on every single one. "Hi Sweatheart, is that picture of Jack hanging upside down real or was that trick photography? I'm at home. Call me" You can also bet that if I don't immediately respond to the messages there will be an email to every email account with the subject title " IS JACK OK?" Followed by a similar text, all in caps.
By the time I do receive all the messages I start to question if his safety actually was in jeopardy and now its in cyberspace to be judged by all.  I will spare you her reaction when she saw a picture of a wine bottle my friend brought.... to share. She did call the next morning around 7 to make sure I didn't have a headache.
Despite my encouragement, my parents are not big drinkers.
If anything, I should be thankful that my parents still show an interest in my life... and maybe even thankful that it can be done through a computer screen and not with a knock on the door.
And just in case they lose their passwords again I "jotted them down" in the notes section of my iphone.  That way, if my "dad"  makes another lunch date with my friend I can quickly intervene. Or perhaps life has come full circle and since they didn't have the opportunity to boast about me as a kid, they are certainly doing it now.

The Revolving Door

I would like to take a vacation from inside my head. I spend a lot of time there. And the truth is, it's a mess. Thoughts flying here and there.  Worries running rampant.  Memories. Doubts. Feelings.
There are times I wish I could just escape from it and focus on the outside rather than  getting lost in the chaos on the inside.  In order to do this however, I would need to go to an island that has yet to be discovered. Because if it was previously discovered they would find me.  One boy would need to have his pants pulled up, or the wrapper removed from his Popsicle. Or God forbid they needed to open a new gallon of milk.
So reality is, I need to discover an invisible island closer to home.
I have been a one woman show while my husband has been away this summer.  And it seems that I have been training to be a ninja or something because I have been put to several tests.  Things I thought were way too hard for me, I have just had to do. I mowed the lawn. That sounds simple, but it took me 10 minutes just to figure out how to start it.  I know a lot of women feel that they don't need a man, but I am not one of those women. I desperately need a man, and specifically mine.
I also have been elected to take care of my husband's classroom pet which happens to be a lizard.  I don't like reptiles, but we could have ended up with a mouse so I'm not complaining. Except for the fact that they eat live crickets.  And for the unfortunate fact that my son had a hard time closing the lid to the cricket container which resulted in at least 5 of them escaping to various rooms in our house and cricketing for 5 days.  It was like we were camping in doors.
However, the hardest challenge I have faced was having to make the decision to put our beloved chocolate lab down.   Since Don left, Graham's health had declined and with that decline I have had to pick him up to go outside, cleaned several accidents and had to stand as a body guard to our other lab who suddenly had become the victim of his senile aggression.  I finally had to make the final decision on my own.
This is when I retreat back into my head. A revolving door filled with memories, feelings and mostly doubt. Spinning and spinning.  Telling four little boys that I have to take their furry brother to be put on a one way trip to Heaven was not an easy task. They have never known life without Graham.   They seemed to look past the fact that he was in the same spot all day or that I would have to carry him to the door some mornings, or that he panted non-stop. To them,  he didn't seem sick at all.
Despite the actual process of putting him down at the vet, watching each of my son's say their personal goodbyes to their first pet was probably the hardest part. It was a unique opportunity to get a glimpse of their personalities. They were each different yet all sincere and to witness their courage and grief was heartbreaking.
What was evident is that they have a healthier understanding and coping mechanism than I do and most adults.  They accepted the reality and the knowledge they couldn't do anything else. That freeing their dog from constant pain was the only solution. And they believe that he is in a happier place and know he will be wagging his tail when he greets them in 90 years.  I am much more cynical and found myself, yet again in the depths of my head trying to justify keeping Graham around just so Don could take him when he got home in 2 weeks.  I was thinking of myself and doubting my strength to do what had to be done.
In an effort to escape reality, I  took the boys to a movie.  Plus, it was hot as hell outside and the cool theater was perfect.  I spent $30 at the concession stand and didn't even notice. I did however notice that my small bottle of water was $4.50. I asked the guy if it was holy water and he apparently didn't think I was very funny.
I decided that I was pretty lucky that Movies 14 could also be our dinner place. A $34.50 meal must be substantial enough, it is corn after all.  But alas, I was not satisfied with my 1050 calorie dinner so after we emerged into the blinding light,  I decided to go to the store and buy a muffin and a bottle of wine.
Again, it had been a rough day and I wasn't thinking clearly or I would not have taken three of the boys with me to get 2 items.  But because the youngest had been at his daycare for the afternoon, I thought it was my only chance... and I really wanted a muffin.
We entered through the side door which has a deli and more importantly a muffin cart.  They have been doing a remodel and had installed a revolving door. I think it is an attempt to keep people from leaving with their shopping carts.  Up until this point I had never given much thought to the fact that Jack the 5 year old had never been in one.  How Midwestern of me to say that.   I swear we take him out once in awhile. But judging by what happened next, I seriously think he had never seen one.
When in public we walk like ducks. I'm in front and there is a single file line behind me.  At least there is suppose to be.  We can't walk next to each other because last time we tried that it turned in to a roaming game of Red Rover.  Red Rover Red Rover, knock that display of Oreos right over.
 I was on a mission to the muffins and didn't notice that Fin and Jack were not directly behind me. When I turned around to see where they were I saw Jack in one side of the 3 sided revolving door, Fin in another and an elderly couple, probably in their early nineties in the other.  It was not moving. Jack was pushing the opposite direction as the old couple, Fin was trying to push the other way and the old couple as well as Jack were perplexed as to why the doors where not revolving. The old couple tried to go the other way, but Fin was stopping that.  The old couple looked like a wind up toy hitting the edge of a wall and turing around to hit the other wall. I could tell Jack was starting to get scared in his glass coffin.  When I saw the old lady trying to stick her cane out I thought they were going to lodge themselves in there and we were going to need to call the Fire Department.  That is when Jack started crying and Fin started yelling at Jack for crying. And Parker who was with me had disappeared somewhere by the doughnuts.  Jack had decided to give up and sit.
I started yelling at Fin to stop yelling at Jack and instructed all parties to move in one direction.  Did I mention it was new and not easily moving.  Finally the strength of an 8 and 5 year old and a really old couple was enough to set Fin free and allowed me to assist the door to free Jack. The old couple went off to their car, which gave me a new reason to believe that most seniors, especially very senior seniors should not be behind the wheel.
When I turned around there was a small audience.
If anything, it taught Jack to stick closer to me.  I went on to get my comfort muffin and wine plus a few post door trauma doughnuts and when we left the store we decided to exit all bunched together.
Life works like that. You can have a crappy day and get stuck in a revolving door, or you can move forward to get out with a doughnut.
There is no doubt that challenges I have faced this past week have been some of the most difficult I have had to face. And although I didn't have my husband, who is my emotional compass and rock I lean on, I had our boys. Who despite feeling immense sadness themselves, my little ducks came together and surrounded their mom in a protective nest.  Sometimes physical closeness, all huddled together on the couch can be more comforting than any words could provide.  Just as physical closeness also proved to work better in navigated through a revolving door. Both a metaphorically and in real life.
The night before Graham died the boys similarly did the cuddle huddle around him for hours.  If he felt a sliver of the love I experienced from my little men that night, there is no doubt he passed on being the happiest dog on Earth.

I am, I am, I am Supermom....

I admit it, I took my role as supermom a little too far. Maybe it was the somewhat successful trip to Target, or the enforced bed time that led me to the false assumption I could take them to a baseball game.   It's all my sisters fault.  She had free tickets and offered to give them to me, plus one of my younger boys was on a playdate, so I thought I could handle 3 alone. I was mistaken.
I have not been to a baseball game that did not involve one of my own children since I was in my 20's.  This isn't even a major league park, just a local one, that is actually pretty nice.
As I was using all my upper body strength to force the 3 year old in the stroller, I should have realized this was not a good idea, but I didn't trust my gut.   Speaking of guts, there were a lot on display.
I try and have an open mind, and I understand that people come in all shapes and sizes, but what is great about living in 2013 is that clothes also come in all shapes and sizes. I will be damned if this women didn't know this.
When we turned in our vouchers for our tickets the ticket guy informed me that we didn't actually have seats, only the field. That was fine, but now I was cursing my sister because this was all her fault.  Her excuse was that she "had to go to mass" sure.  She knew what she was avoiding.
The other thing I forgot about baseball games is the mandatory cleavage.  I didn't get that memo.   Not that I have any to be showing off anyway.  However, just the other day while we were on our way to the pool I had to pull into a 7-11 and get cold drinks for everyone. The insulated bag was in the back buried under floaties and noodles and I had to bend over to get it.  In this neighborhood a mom bending over into a minivan in a pool cover up must be a hot ticket.   A car honked, a cat called, a guy sucked his teeth at me and I even got a whistle from a guy who was standing only about 4 feet away. That was creepy.  The bag was way way at the bottom of the trunk.  Parker appeared to be concerned.  "How did that guy do that?"  I assumed he meant why and began explaining that some guys are stupid and not gentleman like , then he interrupted me and said he wanted to know how the guy whistled so loud without using his fingers.
Maybe 15 years ago I would have felt violated or concerned for my safety, but that day I was almost welcoming a confrontation. I had a baseball...well ok,  t-ball bat in the back of my van and I would be happy to put it to good use, if I had the energy, which honestly I didn't.
As we made our way through the $5 popcorn stands and $4.50 cotton candy vendors we approached the bouncy house park.  As soon as I realized that the park had one, I knew that the action of the baseball game would go unnoticed by my boys.
$5 each later we were bouncing. Except that every other kid in the county was there and apparently without a parent and the lines to the bouncy slides and houses were all the way to Michigan.  Someone who does not understand the concept of a line is my 3 year old.  He also doesn't understand being forced to wear an admission bracelet or the words "get out".  Sometimes I wonder if I'm going to break his arm from lifting him with it when he drops like a sack of potatoes, but so far he is part Gumby.
He quickly got the reputation with the other kids as the kid who cuts and there was a universal solidarity to keep him from doing so.  Some how the other kids learned his name.  Trust me, he was not the only kid cutting.  But what I noticed is that there were not a lot of mothers around. A lot of fathers drinking beer but not a lot of moms except me apparently.
The two older ones stuck together and I was stuck with Mr. Congeniality.  We waited in line for at least 5 minutes for the sky scraper slide. It would have been shorter, but kids kept cutting.  Finally it was our turn and Oscar took his time climbing the ladder.  When he reached the top, he turned around and what I thought would be an expression of exuberance, was that of terror.  He was screaming so loudly that kids up there were covering their ears.  And he was screaming "mommy!" which is the worst word because I know I'm the only one who can rescue him.  The worker was as sympathetic as any high schooler Carney working a summer job.  I made eye contact with my other sons. I motioned for them to help me and they acted like they didn't see me as I flailed my arms and screamed "I need you!"
By this time the growing line of kids and dads were getting very impatient.   So I kicked off my flip flops and started climbing the ladder.
If I haven't mentioned before, I don't like heights.  I don't like rides and I don't like having my butt front and center as I climbed the stairway to heaven.
I made it to the top and suddenly I completely understood where Oscar was coming from, we were on top of the Sears tower.  Where was my mom when I needed her?  I couldn't climb back down the ladder because I would have had a mini heart attack. My only choice was to go down.  Oscar was having after shock screams as I told him our plan. We only had a choice and the mob at the bottom was growing increasingly more impatient.  I put him on my lap and we slid down.  I hadn't anticipated the added weight and my short shorts riding up my butt to expose the rarely seen skin to the material of the slide which was not at all lubricated.  I know, the thought of a lubricated slide belongs more at a girl on girl wrestling tournament.  (P.S. Don't ask me how I know about that.) So it only made sense that it was as dry as a desert.   If it was a less steep incline I would have stuck but we squeaked down and it burned the entire way.  At the bottom my butt was on fire and I actually tripped over my flip flop trying to get off. One guy clapped. I wasn't sure if it was for my bravery, my grace or the fact the line was moving again.
Clearly an experience that would scar a child. His reaction was to promptly put himself at the end of the line.
Enormous bouncy slides are my kryptonite.  All the strength I had as supermom had been exhausted.  I gathered my boys, passed the teenagers making out, the sprinkler park, the playground, the helicopter dropping marshmallows from the sky, and demanded everyone leave.  I did sweeten the deal with the promise of cotton candy.
This was an experience that made me realize that I have not made it to supermom status just yet. I may need a few years, or need to study the greats like, Clair Huxtable or Marie Antoinette, although I don't believe she made it to be a mother, but she did suggest that everyone eat cake. And here I was letting them eat cotton candy despite the sugar rush later.
I have only been a mom for a decade so I have much more time to earn the title.  I may even look closer to home, to my sister going on 18 years (who knew better than to go to this game) or even more super, my mom going on 45 years of motherhood.  She is the one I still need after all, and yes, I just revealed my sister's age.  You know what they say about payback...plus I figure we will have enough time to work on sibling relationships later.

Killing Time

It has been almost a whole week since my husband left us for the summer.  It didn't exactly start off the way I had hoped.  Which all I hoped for would be some peace, so anything other than peace is what we had. Within the first morning, I had cleaned up a dogs poop. I don't know which dog, but I have a feeling its the old one.  I also heard Oscar standing up to go potty ( a new trick he has) but at the same time telling me he just went poopy.  When I investigated the seen, it was true he had pooped standing up.

So it was literally a really shitty morning.

I tried to think it was only a coincidence and not a foreshadowing of the next 5 weeks to come.  With the absence of a grown man I have found that my undertones and sarcasm go completely unnoticed.  By the end of the summer I am sure they are going to understand that when I say with fake enthusiasm
"Sure, I would love to get you another glass of milk since I wasn't in the middle of scrubbing the bathroom floor that your brother took a crap on this morning or anything". 
that I don't really mean what I say.

When I was in high school I had to write an essay about what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I said a mother.  That was it. I remember my classmates making fun of me.  Maybe because I was not what one would picture as a perfect "mom" type at the time.  But I was coming from a place of complete
sincerity. When my friends were saying lawyers, doctors, presidents, I just wanted to be at home taking care of my kids.

When I met Don and he and I agreed he could and should follow his passion to teach it was pretty evident that I was going to need to work if I wanted to have 4 kids and be able to pay for them all.  I decided that being a stay-at home mom was not in the cards for me.  Don't think I haven't brought that up to him several times too. I think I have played the martyr on several occasions especially when things get tough at work.   So before he left, he tried to put a spin on it by saying that now was my chance to be a stay at home mom.  Yes that is true, except, in my scenario my husband was home, and we had a lot of money, and children who didn't fight.

I don't know if its the togetherness or the summer but I have never seen siblings fight as much as mine have.  I try to promote a peaceful environment,  at least I think I do, well ok in my head I do.  It always happens in public too. It's like they want the world to know how much they dislike each other.  Shopping with four kids is hard, shopping with mine is impossible. I never do it.   Jack became angry when he discovered that the company that makes fruit snacks really didn't go out of business.  Parker is upset that he can't have Monster Energy drink and Oscar is screaming to get out of the cart (which there is no way in hell that is going to happen). Jack decides to ride on the back of the cart which makes it about 50 lbs too heavy to turn corners. That is when Fin decided to step up the plate as the daddy-fill-in. Telling Jack to get off.  Once he discovers that his calm voice isn't working he keeps repeating " Jack, off!, Jack, off!"

That is when I found the wine aisle. I have never wanted to escape more than that moment.  Apparently everyone in the store had never seen a woman with four boys fighting.   Being a tween Parker is very aware of everyone looking at us so he decided to pretend he wasn't with our family walking 10 feet behind. If you have seen my children, it is hopeless to pretend you are adopted. We all look alike.

By the time I was done shopping I had a cart full of junk.  So I accomplished two things, feeding my kids sugar and looking like I was stoned because I had no intention of being the next viral video of
"mother loses it at Target" sensation.  So I just ignored it with my game face.  At the check out I discovered that Jack was carrying a bottle of Chocolate wine, which he proudly told the Target lady was his.   An honest mistake coming from a 5 year old, but I decided to just go with it.  It actually wasn't that bad.

After driving a few miles down the road I discovered we had forgotten the one thing we went for. Milk.     As our grocery cart exhibited,  we are keeping General Mills in the cereal business, we cannot live without milk.  I decided to go to the next grocery store.

I was already exhibiting the signs of post traumatic stress disorder and I knew that if I took them all in with me I would seal the deal of being the next viral video sensation. So I made the decision to take the youngest in with me and leave the other three in a locked (air conditioned) car.
You know, at my regular job, if I mess up I won't get arrested, but being a parent is the only job that if you mess up you can go to jail.  Thankfully when I returned to the car, they were there, and I had the milk.  In fact Jack was even asleep. I was hoping he hadn't gotten in to his " chocolate wine".

Don has called a few times and to be honest it is just so hard to talk.  He misses us, I know, but I don't have time to sit down and chat. And when I do, I don't want to Facetime with him because if he saw me he may think I have given up. My hair would probably stay in a pony tail by itself without a holder at this point.

All this time I had held resentment towards him for choosing a career that made it impossible for me to do my dream job, and here I was failing at it.  All the rules we worked hard to enforce, like not co-sleeping have been dropped.  Oscar comes in and sleeps with me every night and I'm too tired to take him back into his bed.  I figure that I have never heard of a 13 year old boy still sleeping in his mom's bed so I shouldn't be too worried.  Ask me again in 10 years if that was a good idea.

I spoke with a friend today and told him that I was just killing time.  I had to run a few errands.  (All of which could be accomplished withOUT getting out of the car.) I found myself taking the long way.  Celebrating red lights.  Obeying the speed limit.   Listening to music, feeling the wind in my hair  and having everyone strapped in was peaceful.

Killing Time.  On any other day, I complain that I don't have enough time but here, I just admitted I was trying to kill the the thing we all strive to get more of.
When I left Parker asked me how we were killing time.  For whatever reason it made me feel really sad that I had said that.  How could I tell him that taking care of his brothers and him was making me wish time would go by faster?

I think giving the impression that you don't want to be with your child is almost worse than leaving them in the car.  Wishing that my time, that I try so hard to get during the year with them, would go by faster. On the way home I decided that maybe Don was right, this was my chance. It was what I had wanted and wished for and why not make the most of it.  If I look at it as hard, its going to be. If I look at it as fun, its going to be and if I approach it with love, maybe I will get that back.

The way they have been acting is a reflection of how I have been treating them. If I appear that I don't want to be them, why would they want to be with each other?   The poop, well maybe that is a cruel joke for my endless sarcasm, I get it....

I exert a huge effort to keep myself healthy to extend what is already too short of a life. Without trying I'm losing another day I have to spend with the people I love most. Although it may be super challenging time is all we have and the last thing I want to do is kill it.

Yard Sale Pergatory

A month or so ago we received a neighborhood email asking if anyone was interested in participating in a neighborhood yard sale. I think I was the first to respond with a huge YES!
I forgot about it until the night before.  The ads had been placed, the flyers with our address had been distributed and we were now locked in, and we were  not going to be yard sale party poopers.
Last night we had a rare night out with friends.  While we should have been home pricing things and sorting things to sell we were picking our beer in a beer garden.  Lets just say between Don and I we had a generous garden bouquet.
When we arrived home, we briefly discussed what we would be placing in our yard and up until that very moment, Don had completely forgotten about this. Even the next morning he had no recollection because while he was "listening" to me ESPN was also on, so I'm sure I sounded more like Charlie Brown's teacher.
I stood up with every intention to start sorting but found my bed way too appealing,  and decided to go there rather than organize stuff nobody wants, including us.
I set my alarm to ring 5 hours from that moment.  It came too soon and before I knew it, I was up ransacking the house for things to sell.
If people had any question if we were going to have any more babies, their answer could be found in the yard daycare I had displayed.  A crib, saucer, high chair, toys that I randomly selected by thier level of annoyance. Ironically, most of the toys displayed came from my mother-in-law. She has a unique ability to find the most annoying toy in the Universe and give it to the boys, and go back to her home 1500 miles away.
In addition to doing this we had an 8 a.m. T-ball game, which as you can imagine was met with as much excitement as a person running a marathon after a bar crawl.  Actually, there was such lack of enthusiasm that I wondered if I was still buzzing because every kid appeared to be walking in their sleep.
I returned home to find Don sitting in a chair in the yard in the middle of a family history of child bearing.  Suddenly I didn't want to sell the crib. Don and I were giving the same people different prices.  I would say $50 he would say $30.  These people didn't need to bargain with us and by the time we finished arguing about the price they had moved on down the street.
I asked Don, how he could place a dollar value on the baby backpack that I fondly remember climbing a mountain with?  He asked if we were going to use it again, which is a cheap attempt to get me to state the obvious, which is (no).  Damn him!
 If my brain wasn't so foggy I would have had the ability to come up with something witty.
People that shop yard sales can be summed up in 3 categories. Hoarders, Weirdos and Nosy.  I had one lady ask about our dog crate and judging by her shirt, she already had too many dogs as it was.   People ask questions about the stuff like I have written the owners manual on it.  "About, how much is the maximum weight this can hold?" I don't f'ing know? Get in and we can find out.  The other thing I am not going to do is convince you to buy my stuff.  You either need it or you don't. More than likely you don't, but you will buy it anyway. Don on the other hand turns into a used car salesman. Demonstrating a folding chair. His motivation is to sell whatever he can so he doesn't have to carry it back into the house.  He was successful too. Later we discovered that his fly was unzipped so we weren't sure if that was the reason his sales numbers were so high, whatever, it worked.
The nosy yard sale goer just wants a sneak peek into your life and ask you questions. " So, you have kids?" No. We just like to pretend like we do. Not to mention the fact that 4 of them are now playing with the toys I selected and each have  friend over which makes me look like the little old lady who lived in a shoe.
I hate yard sales.
I thought my prayers had been answered when a van and a trailer pulled up filled with Amish folks.  They got out like the crew that services the Indy 500 race cars.  Within 2 minutes they had already searched the premises, test driven the stroller and high chairs, deemed all of our stuff unworthy and hopped back in the van and left.  They were gone before they even arrived and never said a word to me, despite my attempt to be friendly.
Just as they left, a huge truck arrived and I remembered that a sofa bed I had purchased a week ago was being delivered today.  That was something I hadn't even discussed with Don, but thought it would be a nice surprise. It wasn't.
Maybe I should have measured the stairway that would be a necessary path for the sofa bed to get to the desired location upstairs (which I did measure).
After a long 45 minutes and a delivery men who seemed to join TEAM DON in their distain for my lack of preparation, they were able to birth the sofa upstairs and only had to remove the legs to do so. The delivery guy actually appeared to be pouting and I wanted to remind him I know a thing or two about squeezing huge things through tight spaces and smack that pout right off of his face, but I got distracted by an old man looking at our blender. Why he was touching the START button I'm not sure, followed by the question, "Does this still work?"
I said, " yes, very well when it is plugged in, are you looking for a blender?"
"No".
Prime example of yard sale category "weirdo"
By this time Don was back but now giving me the silent treatment for failing to mention

a) that I bought a sofa bed and
b) I didn't tell him and
c) I didn't exactly measure properly

Thankfully it began to rain and we could put the remainder of our stuff we don't want back into our house, back into our house.
When it was all said and done we made enough money to cover our dinner of beer last night.
If a yard sale did anything it surrounded me in a purgatory of baby rearing memories along with the pain and with the addition of weird people who liked to run commentary on our belongings as if we can't hear them. "This looks really used". Well, duh. Its a plastic backpack from Dora that has traveled to Florida and back, Mexico and not to mention its assembly in China, or the dozen times it has been dropped down the stairs and possibly defected in for all I know. So yes, it looks used, that is why it is $1 and not retail value of $9.99.

The one thing we agreed on when it was all said and done was that we will never be doing a yard sale again. One afternoon was long enough in the yard sale purgatory.

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.