Blind Sided

This weekend we went to a corn maze and I lost my son.  We all went in together.  Even with my horrific sense of direction I came out the other side.  Ok, to be honest I was following my husband and 3 year old.  The older boys were off somewhere, but I could hear them.   Once Don emerged, he said he was going to take Oscar and get some hot cider while I waited for the other 3.  A few minutes past.  Jack came out.  Parker came out.  A few more minutest past, and we are still waiting for Fin. I sent Jack into get him.  After 5 more minutes I sent Parker in to get Jack.  It was getting very cold and starting to rain.  I felt the panic in my stomach but ignored it. Pretty soon Parker exits pulling Jack by the hood while Jack held on to a corn stalk hoping it would keep him in the maze.  Still not a sign of Fin.  By this time it was raining and my hands were ice chunks.  I called Fin's name over and over.  I eyeballed everyone exiting the corn maze, to see if they were smuggling a nine year old. I texted Don and I instructed the boys to go find their dad. . This isn't our first rodeo, we have lost a child before.  I decided to find him myself.  As I was blindly weaving inside the corn maze looking for a red jacket I began fearing the worst.  News crews. Helicopters.  My frantic soggy plea to help find my son who I lost in the corn.  My heart began to sink as it got darker and colder and now I was alone in the corn trying to find my way through on my own.  Then I imagined Don frantic and soggy talking to the news crew as he explained that he lost his wife and his son in the corn maze. Dateline running a story suggesting that he actually killed me and put me in the corn maze. Yes, I have a vivid imagination.

I managed to find my way out and ran to the barn to find Don.   As I found him I counted the bodies standing around him. One. Two. Three. Four.  I approached and he didn't seem to notice my soaked hair, pink frozen nose and fire in my eyes.  All I could say was. "Did you get my text? " He pulls his phone out of his pocket and decides to answer me. "Oh, Fin is with me."
Obviously, I can see that.   What I don't understand is why he thought I would be out in a corn maze by myself while he was in a warm barn drinking hot apple cider with all four of our boys.  Did he think I took this opportunity to take a stroll?  In addition to this conundrum, why didn't any of my son's mention that I thought we had lost their brother? Wasn't it Jack who suggested we call 911? How soon they forget when they are presented with something more interesting, like cider.

As you can imagine, on the ride home I was a little annoyed.   When I'm annoyed I want everyone else to know. Although Don is aware of this and choses to ignore my tantrum, my boys are oblivious. I began to wonder if anyone has ever listened to me in all the time I have been alive.  I'm pretty sure the answer is no.

When we got home I looked in the fridge and saw nothing.  When the boys are hungry I suddenly become the most popular person in the family.  "What is for dinner? I don't like that! I hate pizza!"  Even though we had been home for 3 minutes I picked up my purse and headed to the store.

As I angrily weaved through the aisles and I hear an old lady say "can someone help me?" I always get asked this, and I wanted to keep walking because I knew the wolves at home were hungry and they may eat the weakest one if they don't get food soon.

Apparently I was the only one in a mile radius that could hear her.  I approached the woman and asked what she needed.  She said she was looking for the cinnamon apple sauce.  I looked and I couldn't find it either.  I asked what brand, and she said she didn't care she just wanted the cinnamon kind.  I was about to give her the regular kind and direct her to the spice aisle, when I found it buried way back on the shelf.  I handed it to her and she thanked me and then told me  that she was diagnosed with macular degeneration and by Christmas she will be blind.  She went on to say that she battled liver cancer and overcame that, but this diagnosis has crushed her.  Her husband is gone, and her kids live far away. She said she didn't know if she would ever be able to actually see them again.   As she began to cry, so did I. Maybe it was my frustration from earlier, or that suddenly it felt so trivial, but there we stood in the applesauce section hugging and crying.  She said she had to hand in her resignation as a special needs teacher the next day because she didn't think she could do it without sight.

I was floored.  I wanted to take her around the store with me.  I asked her if she needed anything else and she said that I was a sweetheart and I had done more than enough. I dried my eyes and continued shopping.  I believe you walk into situations that you need.  When I got to the store I was feeling sorry for myself because I was lost in a corn maze and nobody cared, my husband didn't communicate with me and my kids ignore me until they are hungry.  All the things that I didn't appreciate about my day suddenly became irreplaceable.

She was the sweetheart, not me, little did she know I tried to ignore her. She she had done more than enough for me as well.  Karma gave me bitch slap.  Everything I have, the good, band and ugly is perfect, if I get over myself and take the time to look.  You never know when you might lose sight of the people you love most.

Broken Heart

I found a small duct tape ring next to my wine glass.  My oldest son had put it there for me. Apparently he knew that is where I would find it.  I try and pour a glass of wine after they go to bed to avoid them thinking their mother is lush, but obviously, they are on to me.   I thanked him in the morning and he told me that the girl he had made it for didn't want it.   I could tell he was sad so I didn't push the issue.  When he was out of ear shot I asked his younger brother what happened.  In a whirlwind week, Parker had a crush on a girl, made a girl a ring out of duct tape, tried to give it to the girl and she rejected it.  He then gave it to the only other girl he loves...me.

As much as it pains me to see his little heart hurting, I'm happy.  I want my son to have a broken heart. I hope he has his heart broken at least five more times before he is 25.   As we rode to school today Miley Cyrus's Wrecking Ball came on.  Despite the video of her swinging naked on a wrecking ball, it is actually a great song.  Until you have had your heart broken, you can't understand what 50% of all songs ever written are about.

I had my first heartbreak in high school.  My first official boyfriend was a junior and I was a freshman.  We dated for an entire year, which for a teen, is like a decade.  For our one year anniversary I convinced my mom to help me buy him a Polo rugby.  I wrapped it up and he came over in his red sports car and I excitedly gave it to him.  It was a Saturday night, and I think we ate pizza, and watched SNL.  All was good in my world, which at that point revolved around him.  I ate, drank, slept, breathed him. I was drinking the love kool-aid.  On Monday I arrived late to school because I had a dentist appointment.   A friend met me in the hallway and told me I should go home.  I remember thinking that was weird, but looking back she was trying to protect me.  Class let out and I could see my boyfriend getting out of his first class.  I could also see he wasn't wearing the rugby I had gotten him. However, a senior girl who was walking next to him was.  Oh and coincidentally, she was holding his hand.
I felt all my breath leave my body and it was replaced with fire.  I was so confused.  I thought they were "just friends". I approached him and asked him why she was wearing that.  He never let go of her hand when he simply said, "I don't love you anymore".  That is a wrecking ball moment.  I was stunned.  I did manage to call her a slut before I dove into the bathroom and cried for the next 2 hours.
By lunch everyone knew. My world as I knew it had ended and I took everything down with me.  I briefly quit soccer, I didn't do homework.  I didn't eat.   My heart was broken.  Friends told me that he dumped me because she actually was a slut, and that he would be back with me in a month. Well, a month turned into a year, and another, and another, and when I came home from college my first Christmas I got a call from him, letting me know they had broken up.
By that time, I had moved on and been through at least 2 more boyfriends, but just hearing his voice made me relive that anguish.  By the way, I still don't like that girl.
I liked hitting rock bottom.  Not at the time, but if I hadn't, been so hurt early on, I probably would have made stupid decisions regarding my life, like staying at home for college.  Which would have never gotten me to Arizona.  Close to California, where I met my future husband.
Little did I know that heartbreak number 2 was right around the corner.  I had a great boyfriend. He was sweet, nice, cute.  Yet I cheated on him and met Mr. Stiletto. I call him that because he may have looked great, but he hurt like a bitch, and despite that, I still tried to make it work, fought through the blisters and pain because on the outside he looked so good.  I tried my hardest to fill that killer stiletto.  I would have cut off a pinky toe to be an ideal fit for him.  But in the back of my mind I knew he was not a good fit for a marathon.  Just a fun crazy night out.
After six whirlwind months  he broke up with me by telling me he was going on a trip with another girl.  I'm sure she was a slut too.
This time, being older the pain was worse. Again, stopped eating, slept a lot. Listened to Alanis Morrisette and Led Zeppelin on repeat.  I expressed all my pain in a journal.  When it was all said and done, I had about 2 full journals double sided, trying to figure out what went wrong.  I recently read one.  My heart has muscle memory, and I although I can still feel a tinge of pain, I want to scream at myself for being that gullible.  I can credit that moment as the discovery of my solace, which is writing.   And most importantly, that influenced my decision to move to California.  Ever heard the song by Led Zeppelin,  Going to California?

"Spent my days with a woman unkind, Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine.
Made up my mind to make a new start, Going To California with an aching in my heart. "

Yes.  Obviously I was very impressionable. Thank goodness it was Led Zeppelin and not 2Pac that I clung to. That could resulted in a drive by shooting or jail time.

People ask me all the time how I ended up in California.  I don't mention that I was broken hearted.
I met the love of my life 3 years later.  And for the record, Mr. Stiletto came back too, but thankfully Don had put a ring on it and I was more than happy to show him my new accessory over lunch.

I had to get hit with a wrecking ball a few times. I had to be knocked down to rebuild myself with a stronger more solid foundation.   

For my dear son, if you ever read this. I love that your heart hurts.  (Even though I think that 10 year old girl must be crazy for not wanting your duct tape ring.) I will wear it with pride.  The pain is short lived to the comparison of the time you will spend with the right one for you.   When this happens again (and it will), I will be ready to help you tape back the pieces, making you even stronger than before. 

Mom Goggles

Just like my house, my kids show better in the dark.   This morning as I gave my 6 year old son his 5th stalling kiss goodbye at the drop off line, I noticed a red substance encrusted on his cheek.  "What did you have for breakfast?" I asked. "Mini Wheats" he responded.  Then I remembered that he had a dinner of ketchup the night before.  I swear he took a bath last night, or was that the night before?
My next son approached and looked like his clothes had been in the bottom of a silo for the past decade.  The only one who was not crusty, stained and wrinkled was my oldest.
He was breathing in my face to show me how minty fresh his breath was. According to the grapevine, he has his first crush. This news slapped me in the face the other day and woke me up to the fact that he is no longer a baby but a tween.
I think I view my sons with Mom goggles.  I see what I want, until the light shines and exposes imperfections.   There are times I choose to ignore things.  Like the fact that Jack, despite being in first grade, likes to discuss boobies.  Or that none of the boys are stellar athletes (at least not yet).  Or that they all like Selena Gomez.
I had a weird ass day yesterday.  It began with my alarm not going off, which caused me to sleep "in" until 6.  This simple malfunction caused confusion and delay.   I kept asking Don what day it was.  What are we doing today? It was Thursday, obviously, the same thing we do every day. Work. School. Eat.
That extra hour slipped me into a coma and when I woke up, I was shocked to have a husband, kids and a job. I was looking at my house with non-mom goggles and it was not pretty.
I had about 3 minutest to get ready for work. I looked in the mirror.  Oh. My. Gawd.  Why do I have a big huge zit on my chin?  Oh that's right, I heard that putting avocado oil on my face was better than any store bought moisturizer according to some 23 year old organic goddess I watched on YouTube.  Maybe I will have my monster zit take a selfie of itself and send it to her, to thank her for that.
Once I dropped off everyone I felt like a robot with my zit operating as my North Star as it navigated me to my office.  Within moments I felt something bite me.  I looked to the source of the pain, and nothing is there but a small red dot.  As I tried for the next 5 minutes to itch and type I glanced down again and it was the size of a quarter.   At the copier I told my boss that I had been bit by a bug.  "On your chin?" he asks.  Damn zit.
No, right here. I show him and he immediately sends me to the wellness center.  An hour later, I am back in my office with an ice pack, a mountain of paperwork and an incident report to fill out and fax back.

I felt like Forrest Gump. "Something BIT ME?!" Not only that, I was given strict orders to be on "light duty".  But I had to wonder, how is that different than any other day?

The upside of this was that I was given benedryl which has a similar effect as marijuana on me. Not that I would know of course.  So the rest of the day was spent stoned.   The good news, is that I know Arabesque is my favorite screen saver. And has a much deeper meaning than most would expect.

In an effort to not get brainwashed by my screen saver I opted for some office coffee. Usually I would walk 100 feet to the campus Starbucks, but because I was on strict doctor's orders, I walked across the hall with my new mug. A fabulous friend gave it to me. 

I like to twerk. Don't hate.

 I settled back in to staring at my Arabesque screen saver and drinking my Folgers. I was awakened by a distinguished professor who came in to asked me a few questions. Ugh, work.   I was answering yes to everything until she asked me what a twerk was.   That woke me up.   She isn't exactly up on current events obviously.
I tried to dodge the question, with something along the lines of "What?"And secondly, why was she asking me this, did word of my twerking get out?  She pointed to my mug.
I explained that it was a kind of dance. (Pole optional)  Being an academic, she was seeking a concrete answer and was not going to let this go.
"Is it done as a couple?" 
"No, well, it could, it is a trend right now."
"I read something in the NYT about it. but I can't picture it"
In an effort to end this conversation I asked her,
"Do you know who Miley Cyrus is?"
"Who?"
At this point I just want to get back to my light duty screen saver monitoring.
"She kind of made it popular recently"
"Is it sexual in nature?"
Why can't she just let it die?  She is twerk pusher.  I like to twerk in the privacy of my own kitchen. Please don't push me to show you, especially since I am stoned and on light duty.
 "Yes, but I am not going to show you". 
"Well, ok, I guess I could always google it.".

Finally, a good idea!  I wish I was there to witness her reaction when she googled twerk. I'm sure she thinks differently of me now.

The scary thing is, to get her out of my office, I was just about to show her. God working miracles right there.

At the end of the day I discovered that I was viewing myself through the very mom-goggles that I see the boys.  I kind of liked what I saw.  
I wasn't judging myself, I was taking each moment as it came.  I was relaxed and confident in my convictions.   Granted, I wasn't doing anything, but it felt good for a change.  I may even try it again, this time Benedryl optional.

The beauty behind failure

I have kind of had a dirt sandwich kind of day.  It's amazing how one little thing that doesn't go as planned can leave you feeling like a complete loser.  And if you let that one thing bother you, it can cast a shadow on everything else that is going right.
When I was in college I auditioned for a the MFA program at school in San Francisco.  I prepared for months, selecting the perfect monologue. I traveled there alone and auditioned.  I really thought it went well.  I nailed it. I even went out that night to celebrate.  The next day the call backs were on the door,  I read the list. My name wasn't on it. After re-reading the names again and again and again (and again).  It didn't magically appear.  I. WAS. DEVASTATED.  My entire life plan had just been deleted.
What the hell was I going to do now?  I returned to the hotel and cried on the bathroom floor.  Just to give you an idea of how devastated I was. I would never in my right mind even sit on a hotel bathroom floor, I wouldn't even lay on MY bathroom floor. Yet there I was in a heap of tears and fetal position agony.  The next day I awoke and ordered room service and cried some more.
I let someone else's decision determine my destiny. I thought, well hell, if the panel of 3 people I don't know, don't like me, then the entire world won't like me either. Therefor I am a big ass loser and I might as well just be a waitress for the rest of my life.
I'm not exaggerating here. I really could not see past the overwhelming sense of rejection. I actually went through a mourning period.  Mourning the one school I wanted to go to which had rejected me.
Some would suggest getting back in the saddle and trying again. Not me. I wanted nothing to do with the people. I threw a self pity party of one where I felt like everyone hated me and thought I sucked.
Rejection stinks.  Even if its something you didn't really care about.
Today my dirt sandwich was delivered in the form of the rejection of an idea I had.  I really thought it was a good idea. Granted I didn't change my whole life plan like I did with my audition, but I at least thought it would benefit my career and make my job better.
Today, rather than crying on the bathroom floor at work. I buried my feelings in Starbucks.  It is an old security blanket that I turn to when I need comfort.  I hope to God that doesn't sound as pathetic as it did when I just re-read it.  But I'm just being honest.  I have said this before, and people disagree with me up and down, but I am shy.  Terribly. To go out on a limb and suggest something is hard for me.  Even worse is if I am going into a situation where I don't know who will be there, I will always go to get a coffee before hand. Even if I feel super awake.    That way, if I'm in a situation and don't know what to say, I can put the cup up to my mouth and drink coffee so I don't have to talk.
This has worked for me all through college and numerous meetings and social functions.
The only problem is, is when I don't have a coffee and the only beverage available is alcohol.  That results in me drinking too much and then becoming way wAY WAY too chatty.
So as I stood in Starbucks trying to not jump over the counter for my personalized security blanket, I stopped thinking about my rejection.
I started to look over the photos in my cameral roll and remembered how I had snapped this photo.

I took it this morning as I was trying to get dressed.  In an effort to be close to us, yet not get taken back to his room, Oscar found the perfect nesting spot on our bed. I must admit, I felt his little breath on my foot last night, but was too tired and (too comfortably happy) to take him back.

I smiled.  It came full circle.  I'm not a failure at all.  If I had gotten into the MFA program I would probably still be a waitress only with a higher degree.  I would have never met my husband. And never been able to look at my bed and snap a picture of this bed bug.

This latest rejection isn't any different despite my immediate tendency to feel like I should quit and start a job as a professional coffee consumer.

Ironically, the audition that I felt changed my life forever, I read my favorite Shakespeare monologue from  As You Like It.   This quote isn't from that work, but if Shakespeare had written about my life, this just might have been a quote.

"Maybe love won't let you down.  All of your failures are training grounds and just as your back's turned you'll be surprised… as your solitude subsides."

- William Shakespeare

Penis Envy

Water Weenie 

When I was five years old my mom told me I asked her for a penny to throw in a fountain.  She said I was very deep in thought moments before I made my wish.    The next day I came to her crying because my wish hadn't come true. I had wished for a penis.  Little did I know that my wish would come true four (or five, including my husband) times over 30 years later.
 I had a serious case of penis envy that any Freudian psychoanalysts would have loved.  Let me preface this that I didn't actually know what a penis was, other than a handy device to pee from.  I would watch my neighborhood pals pee against a tree with admiration.  I tried several times, even leaning my pelvis so far forward it could touch the bark, only to give in to the squat.
I thought that if I started acting more like a boy I would grow one.  I got a really short hair cut,  I wore any t-shirt with a number on it.  I played with cars, rode a boy bike ( which I learned that if you fall on the bar with your girl part it hurts just as much as if you were to hit it with your boy part).
Regardless of my efforts, it didn't happen.  I had several water weenies that I would stuff my pants and pretend I was a boy.  I often wondered how boys even left the house when they had a built in water weenie to play with all day.   But like any childhood wish, it became all to clear it was a fallacy. (Cheap pun)
Around fourth grade when we started learning about anatomy is when my love of penises came to a crashing halt.  I. Was. Horrified.  I had it all wrong,  it looked more like Gonzo and less like a sparkly water wiener.
Obviously, a lot happened between fourth grade and now, lets just say I have a new respect for the male organ.   But because I made that wish 30 years ago, the fountain fairy placed me in the middle of a big circle…(family circle.) What were you thinking?
A day does not go by that I am not flashed a penis.  It is a topic that comes up often in our house.  It doesn't matter on the age. Often I would find one of my sons with his hand in his diaper while watching Higglytown Heroes.   I try not to seem alarmed when a toddler proudly shows me how he made his wiener grow.
As a little girl I promised that if I only had one I would never lose it or want for anything else.  What I didn't realize is there isn't a chance any guy could lose it because they are constantly feeling for it to make sure its still there.
I have been in the presence of a male in a professional setting that doesn't have a clue he just adjusted himself  all while never breaking eye contact.  If you are a man,  it seems to be completely socially acceptable to grab your goods and drag it to the other side of yourself, or tying it in a knot, or whatever the hell you are doing when you manhandle your pants while doing everyday tasks, like sitting.
When a women does it, she is either, a pop star or someone you would run away from.
I have learned a lot being the mother of four boys and male dogs.   There is solidarity in the penis.   There is empathy. After the boys were taken by the doctor to get circumcised I unknowing participated in Don's moment of silence.  When our dog was neutered we said a prayer for his penis at dinner.  I didn't feel like explaining that it had nothing to do with his penis.  The topic of the beans will eventually  make its way as the supporting actor, but for the time being I will let their focus be on the frank.
There are days when I grow tired of the penis talk, but when the boys are around Don has learned to limit it.  I get it. Men are proud of their manliness and by all rights they should be.   Women get the credit for giving birth but it wouldn't be possible with out our men and to think how they responsibly took care of it, prior to that moment.
If I could go back in time to that fountain I would tell my five year old self to wish for a big brain instead. and not to worry. You don't need a penis of your own.  That when you are a women, you will be able to find plenty of men that are more than happy to share theirs.

That's not my name

That is not my name.
 

I suffer from a terrible case of mistaken identity.   I thought it was because growing up there was a Nicole in my class (it was a long 12 years).  However, she has since moved on, but I am still called her name. By anyone and everyone from my employer (of 6 years), colleagues, my boss, neighbors, of course the Starbucks barista. all the way to my *husband. People continue to call me by an erroneous name. Even if they get it right, they spell it horribly wrong. I would like to think it was because I have one of those rare exotic names if there wasn't that Darned Christmas song which translates to the same variation in every single language and repeats itself over and over and over.. 

I'm so grateful that my parents continued the "N" tradition with naming all of my siblings an N name. Perhaps they ran out of ideas and chose my name despite my birth not being anywhere near Christmas.  What I cannot understand is when people email me with my name clearly typed in the address and STILL get my name wrong. My favorite, not pictured is Louellen, a little old lady I know calls me that.    She is just so nice, and I figure she is not long on this Earth anyway, why correct her? It doesn't help that I married someone with the last name Elliott. Now my name can be combined into one name: Noelliott.  I may adopt this as my new name because like many celebrities, it works for them. Beyonce, Madonna, Fergie. The only difference is, that they are famous, I'm not and all of their names are 400 times cooler. 

* This only happened once and we were not married yet, he learned his lesson. 

The Mamalogues

 I recently read my most personal blog post in a production I created called The Mamalogues. It was a great show and the majority of the readings were hystercial but this one needed to be heard and was deeply personal. All  the women who performed were all very talented and it was a great event.  Here is my account of my struggle with postpartum depression and anxiety. 

Bring it on.

I was in a battle of wills this morning with a 3 year old and I lost.  It all began last night at a school potluck.  A school that my husband teaches at and that all four of my sons attend. A school that promotes peaceful resolutions. A school that prides itself on respect for the child.

I was not a good example of this.

The potluck was at 5:30 immediately following work. I had prepared our side dish the night before by opening a bag of organic greens and dumping it into a bowl.  Last year I embarrassed my husband because I arrived with styrofoam plates and chips. Not this year, I brought our home dishes.
Oscar (3) is new to this environment and decided to lay flat on the floor right in the middle of the foot traffic. I ignored him.
He then discovered the dessert table before dinner had started.  He took 2 brownies. I ignored that too.
By the end of the evening after he spit in my face on the playground I took him to the hallway and made him sit in the naughty spot.  A naughty spot I created.  Don was socializing and despite my efforts to communicate with him by burning a hole in his skull with my eyes, it wasn't until he heard Oscar's scream that he realized what was going on. Oscar's scream is an entire body scream. He clenches his fists and shakes until  he boils and a loud screech is propelled out of his mouth.  A babysitter once told us she had never heard anything like it in her 75 years of life on this Earth. 

Oscar was born the day after my birthday. He and I are the same sign in the zodiac which is known for strong wills.  Ram is the animal and is accurate in his an my interactions. We lock horns…. a lot.

How can a 3 year old have so much anger pent up towards his mother? Already?
This morning I felt that things were ahead of schedule.  One son was helping with the dishes. One was practicing the violin, one was playing and Oscar appeared to be reading a book on the couch.  All was well.   However in closer observation, he had removed his pants and underwear and was resting my phone on his "parts".   He had also removed his shoes and socks.

By the time I finally put all his clothes back on I had broken a sweat. The harmony that had existed in the background was now chaos.   When I took my phone back he decided to declare war.

Is there such a thing as toddler bullying?  If not, this will be his legacy.  He is calculated and has been methodically breaking me down since before he could talk.  When he was just an infant he would shun my left boob.  It wasn't good enough for him. only the right one. Which immediatly resulted in my chest looking like Barbie on one side and Ken on the other.

Yesterday he walked in on me changing and screamed.

At the pool he asked me how I got my stripes on my belly.  He knows very well they are from him.

He hides my phone in an effort to make me believe I have lost my mind.

He sneaks into our bed at night and wets my side of the bed. 

This morning on the car ride he had convinced his brother to get him a bowl of veggie straws. Before we had even backed out of the garage they looked like confetti being thrown in my review mirror because he didn't like the bowl.  I stopped the car, collected them off the floor and left them in our drive way.

He then decided to scream which I ignored.

His next attempt was to throw his shoes at the back of my head. I kept driving.  Next were his socks. That was it. Again, I pulled over the car.  Got out, and opened the back door.  Our horns locked.  He stared deep into my eyes and spit.

What is with this SPITTING THING? Is he part camel?  Its not like he has aim. It usually dribbles down his chin, but it all began when we told him he couldn't hit, so he decided to spit.

The rest of the boys who witnessed this let out a collective gasp. At this point I wanted to lay in the middle of the traffic. I was not going to let him win and his brothers witness it.  That is how coups d'état get started. 

I used his sock to clean up the spit from his chin.  Shoved his Fred Flinstone feet back into them and velcro-ed his shoes back on so tight that he may be wearing them until he is 4.  He screamed. It was all he could do, because he hasn't mastered the unbuckle task.

I got back into the drivers seat. A tear streamed down my face from under my oversized sun glasses.  My oldest son who now sits in the front seat and who I forget is there sometimes, handed me a kleenex.

"I think he needs anger management or something" said someone in the backseat.  I nodded and proceeded in the 5 minutes ride to school which was now taking 20.

The tear formed out of complete frustration, but I was able to collect myself and suck it up.  I was not going to let this break me.

We arrived at school and the three older ones gave me long hugs goodbye. As if to say, "you really lost that one". But in a nice way.  By the time I drove Oscar to his door, he had silently removed his socks and shoes… for the third time that morning.

As the teacher approached to take him, I couldn't hand him over soon enough. I did all I could to act calm as I put his shoes and socks back on. But I sensed his silent satisfaction.   I said goodbye and as I was driving away I heard him yell "Mommy! Hug and Kiss". So I stopped, yet again and hugged my little tyrant.

It doesn't end there. Why? Because he had gotten into my head!  I rolled down the windows, turned up the music and drove to work.  I thought I had shed the anger/defeat/loserness by the time I was walking into work.  That was until I ran into a neighbor who was walking in the opposite direction. I don't know him that well.   He asked how the boys were.  It was at that moment I lost it.  Yep.
I started crying and said that our last child was impossible and that he threw his shoes at me. Poor guy, he was just saying hello. 

If the mascara running down my face didn't freak him out. I'm sure my ability to suck the tears right back up in my head and smooth my hair and act like that never actually happened most  certainly did.  He said he had to make it to a meeting and was off. But before his goodbye he asked, "are you going to be ok?" "oh sure," I said with a smile. Trying to not look as crazy as I actually am.

I admit it,  this morning got the best of me.  It took four sons, over a course of 10 years, but this little guy is going to be my tough cookie. By lunch I am sure he has forgotten this even happened, but mama's don't forget. (My mom still yells at me for climbing on our roof as a kid like it happened yesterday.)  The black mascara that has been washed away and puddled under my eyes has only giving me my game face.  So bring it on sweet child o mine. Bring. It. On.  

Suck it up, Buttercup

I'm a big girl now.  I have a husband, a house, offspring, two cars, a job. And there are still things that I do not want to do.  Ok, that I just have dug my heels in refusing to do.  When my van starts to make a weird noise, the first person I call is not my husband. It's my dad. Why? Because I trust his knowledge of automobiles (as he still calls them) implicitly.  I can call him and within minutes has the solution, which is to take my van in himself.  Mechanics make me nervous.
Cleaning windows.  When we bought our 1930's home it had the original windows. Ten years ago we had them replaced, but that doesn't stop me from telling Don I don't know how to clean them.  I also don't know how to use the stupid Xbox remote that controls our netflix.  And guess what? I'm not about to learn.
Many women take pride in not needing a man.  I do. Desperately.   Well, the truth is, I know I could do some things but I think Don and my Dad like to feel needed. At least that is what I keep telling them.
Recently I have had to face some grown up decisions.  I'm still amazed at times that I am a grown up.
Sometimes I will be sitting in my office and wonder how this happened? How did things get so serious all of the sudden?  I loved the time when I could go tell my mom something and she would take care of it.  Now being the mom, I have had to learn to take care of things.  Not only things regarding the kids, but for my well being too.

There are times when you know that standing up for what you feel is right is the right thing to do, even if its not the easiest.  There are times that I just have to tell myself; "suck it up, buttercup"
The first time I heard that phrase was from a travel team soccer coach.  We were at the end of a game and it was 130 degrees outside.   I begged him for a sub, but he knew I had 5 minutes left in me.  I would have argued, but I was so tired and out of breath I didn't have the energy to whine.   I survived, we won, the end, right?
Wrong. Now as an adult, I don't have a coach telling me to suck it up.  In regards to personal issues, it is just up to me.  We face things in our life that, frankly just suck.  Watching my uncle die? Sucked. But my inner voice said "suck it up buttercup".  He would have done it for me.  Putting my beloved pet down when my husband was out of town? Sucked.  Ending a toxic friendship? Getting up the courage to speak up about something that you know is right is equally as hard. But again, you just have to say, suck it up buttercup. Realizing that the office water is depleted and my only option to avoid perishing from dehydration is the drinking fountain? Yep, in this case I have to put e coli aside and suck it up, or die.

There is an inner argument in my head.  My desire to do something vs. My doubt I can do it.
I recently decided to put together a small production called The Mamalogues.  Sure I had doubt, what if nobody wanted to participate, what if nobody wants to come, is this a stupid idea?  One morning I just got up and decided to do it.  Guess what? Everyone I asked to participate said yes, it sold out in a week and in the dress rehearsal I learned that it isn't a stupid idea, it is brilliant.   Brilliant because each of the women have so much to say.
Easily I could have let doubt win, like so many other times. But the world would still be going on, and I would have always wondered what it would have been like.
I would have told myself I didn't have time..but you can always find time to do something you love.
Somethings aren't even that poignant.  Today I didn't feel like going to work. It is hot, I have to park 4000 miles away but I'm not the only person who has to make this voyage so I just tell myself  "suck it up buttercup".

What I realized today is that all this time I have been "sucking it up" I never really knew what I was
(for lack of a better word) sucking up?  Fear.  Doubt. Laziness.  And it has resulted in something I didn't anticipate.  Years of gulping down emotions resulted in bravery, confidence and ambition.

The pain and discomfort I feel in my stomach before I embark on something uncomfortable is fueled with the confidence of doing what is right.  If you know that your intention comes from a good place then it can't be wrong.

Examples of buttercups who sucked it up; Amelia Earhart, her outcome might have been less than perfect, but her legacy taught little girls that she was capable of doing a man's job.  Steve Jobs, if he would have decided to wait until he was rested to create Apple, then it would have been too late.  Betty White.  She could easily hung up the towel and retired but the world would have missed out on how funny she is.  George Takai again, he could have just decided to live off the Star Trek royalties, live a quiet life, but instead, the 76 year old became an advocate for LGBT rights as well as an author, an  internet sensation for his humor and quick wit, which I am grateful for because his posts make me laugh..and I believe laughing makes me feel better even when I think its not possible.

My point is, next time you feel like not trying something, or not speaking up, or tolerating a frenemy, just tell yourself to suck it up. Even if the outcome isn't what you hoped, you at least tried, and you never know who might have a positive impact from your simple act of bravery.

High Five a Teacher Today

It is back to school time, which also means that I will not see my husband for another 3 or 4 months.
I love seeing people post pictures of their kids with excited grins, embarking on the first day of school.  I wish I could post a picture of my husband, who is equally as excited, but he was gone before I was awake. I have had the opportunity of witnessing greatness behind the scenes.  It is a gift to watch anyone who is completely aligned with their life's purpose.

We recently had dinner at a friends house and he told us a scary statistic he had read.  The average amount of 1 on 1 time a father spends with his child per week is seven minutes.  Seven minutes.
I don't know the details of the statistic, but it didn't come as a surprise to Don as much as it did me.
Our boys are Don's muses.   I think he sets things up in the house just to see how they react to it.  When he was gone this summer he gave our oldest the job of watering our tomatoes.  At the time they were just little seeds.  Each day he would call in, Parker would report on the progress of the tomatoes.  The sun was scorching them so he had to come up with a solution for that.  When the vines got to high he had to come up with a solution for that. When the chipmunks started eating them, he had to come up with a solution for that. Our small tomato garden looks like a junk yard. With homemade shades and stakes made out of our old wood floor and a chipmunk scarecrow made from his brother's hulk pez dispenser.  Even from across the country Don put in his seven minutes, and the truth is, in the past he probably picked up the slack for many fathers who, some haven't seen their kids in years.

In the weeks before school starts I know I won't see my husband.  He spends hours setting up his classroom, preparing his lessons and trying to get his classroom perfect for each of his students to be inspired to explore and learn. Last night he was at school until midnight, and this morning he was up with the alarm raring to go right back.

People idolize celebrities and view their life of money and the pinnacle of life success.  Once in awhile someone will thank a teacher, but our society is also quick to blame one.
When I hear someone mention how much money (or lack there of) my husband makes it makes me laugh. There are few careers that people openly feel free to discuss the salary.  What people don't realize is that we feel rich.  Some wives would get upset with their husbands spending half of his paycheck at one store but I know its for his "other" kids.

We make it work, we have everything we need.  More importantly I have a husband who is happy.
Between the two of us we have four jobs. But they are each things we really enjoy doing.  If we had careers that made more money, we might not have discovered our different passions.
Our boys want for nothing.  I want for nothing. ( Well, I did, but then I finally got my VitaMix).  When Don taught at a different school he would give some kids shoes ours had outgrown, or jackets in the winter.  He even bought a student a pair of glasses because his were being held together by paperclips and tape. We are grateful to be able to help them.

Another reason we don't want for anything is the generosity that is given back to us.  Parents have been extremely generous.   We have been given gift cards allowing us to eat at restaurants all year long, frequent flyer miles, enough coffee mugs to open a cafe and enough Red Sox t-shirts to open a gift shop.  Not to mention a few extra pounds around the holidays because the gift of chocolate keeps on giving. No wonder the boys want for nothing.

When your child goes back to school, just remember that their teacher may be just as excited as they are.  Don't pity a teacher for their lack of compensation.  The good ones didn't chose this career path because of the monetary value, but more the value of influencing the next generation.

You may hear women say they want to marry a rich CEO or a physician or famous actor. That is fine with me, because I married a teacher and we are doing more than just fine.

But really, the best gift you can give to your child's teacher is respect and confidence that they know what they are doing.  And maybe a high five when you see them. That is teacher language that they are doing a good job.

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.