My Non-Olympians

I really admire the dedication of Olympic athletes. It is amazing to literally, be the best at what you do, not only in your town, but also your state, the country and the world.   I know it takes years and years of dedication, which is hard to believe when some of these athletes are teenagers.
As I was watching the snowboarding event I was interrupted by my oldest who burst into the room wearing only his pajama bottoms. He proudly showed me his thumb, which was raw and the top layer of skin had worn off. "I have gamer thumb!"  He was so proud of it. As his pride escalated, my shame surpassed it.

Look what I have done.  I have created a "gamer". It has been a rough winter in the Midwest. Snow, rain, snow, more snow, wind and frigid temperatures. This has been going on since Thanksgiving. His gamer thumb is an obvious lapse in my parenting. A white flag saying, I can't come up with another thing for you to do inside, go play your video games.   If gaming was an Olympic sport, he would surely earn a gold medal. But it's not.  Neither is sewing, which my second son has taken up.  One day he decided he wanted to make an enormous doughnut pillow by hand. He would at least get a silver medal for hand stitching baked good replicas.  My third son's interest vary, but he is always very dramatic.  Sometimes his performance of being fatally injured at the hands of one of his brother's is so convincing even a trained actor believes him.  My last son would place in the top 3 of destruction.  Destruction of anything, Legos, Play-doh, egos. And for a three year old, he can come up with some pretty creative insults.  The other day he asked Jack if he had a bajina. He knows very well, Jack doesn't have a bajina, but not only is he using a word (pronounced incorrectly) he is not suppose to, he is calling his brother a girl in one fell swoop.

I'm not really painting my decade of parenting in a positive light am I?

My husband could win a gold medal for eating whatever he wants and not gaining a pound. That really should be a sport.  I work out more than I care to admit, and people don't notice. But my boss asked me what Don did because he was so muscular. Huh? Again, HUH?  I try very hard to not get annoyed with this, but its hard at times.  In fact, I believe Fin got the idea to sew a pillow after watching his father eat two krispy kreams in one minute flat.

Then there is me. This morning, like any morning I arrived back home from the gym around 6:45. This always shocks Oscar and he really thinks I sleep in the garage.  Usually he is alone sitting at the kitchen table waiting to be fed. Everyone else is asleep, despite setting various alarms around the house that apparently only a toddler can hear.  This is where my skills come into play.  Don can wake up, do the three S's, get dressed, eat like a lumber jack and be out the door in 10 minutes. Leaving me with a choir of boys who try and convince me in unison that it is Saturday and they don't have to go to school.

I manage to feed, clothe and herd, them all out the door and to school on time. Not to mention myself who can take a shower, give a spelling quiz, text a neighbor and get myself ready for work in enough time to grab my coffee and go. In addition to being a gold medal gamer, my son has learned to make my coffee and have it waiting for me on the table.

I get a quick glance in the mirror before I leave and realize that my combination of cardigan and messy bun which at one time was cute, now looks more and more like Mrs. Garret.   But, you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the Facts of Life, the Facts of Life.




Although we may not be flying down a hill on skies or going face first in the skeleton event we are achieving greatness in our own right.  I was so happy to see the commercials which highlighted the parents of Olympian's who have trained just as hard, just behind the scenes.

I know that none of my boys will be Olympic athletes, but you might just see a techie or Barista, a uniform designer or concession stand manager, a commentator and a demo crew on the sidelines which will make me just as proud.

My mom once told me she was so proud of me after I backed my car into a parallel spot, I was 35. Which proves that even the little things can make a mother's heart sing at any any age.

Greatness is achieved on a quieter unknown level also. It may not earn a Gold medal, but for a me, having a sip of the most perfect cup of coffee as I walk into work seems to cancel out our imperfections and  reminds me that I have a lot to be proud of.

Love More.

Around Valentines Day I get a little nostalgic. It's hard not to, with all the commercials and ads and numerous cards, candy and pressure to show your love for someone with a gift.  My husband and I really don't do this.  I have never had a moment where he opened a box with a big diamond in it and I jump into his arms and giggle. The only time he has done that is when he proposed, and he said I looked like I was going to vomit.  The truth is... I was.

Love is scary.  You don't see that on the commercials.
When I say I get nostalgic, it's not for my memories of past romances. It's of my childhood.  I loved decorating a shoebox and placing it on my desk. The smell of conversation hearts and the anticipation of getting little cards from everyone with my name on it. Spelled correctly!
I also remember waking up to a card from my mom and a  kitchen table decorated with hearts.  When I think of love, I think of what I felt as a little girl. Grown up love is challenging and what I am starting to figure out,  always evolving.  When Don and I started dating I thought I knew love.  I think I knew lust.

I understood marriage about as well as I understand an IKEA instructional manual.  I saw the pretty outcome,  I had all the pieces to make it and even the tools, but it is never as easy as you think it will be.

After 12 years of marriage and 14 years of dating we are still in the learning stages.  At times, marriage is really fun. At times it is taken for granted and other times it is so frustrating. It can be reprieve from the outside world. But other times I want to escape it.
And I consider myself lucky to be in a good marriage.  I'm not saying I want to be unfaithful, or leave for good, but sometimes I think about how nice it would be on my own and not immediately associated with anyone else.
I had coffee with a close friend of mine. I mentioned how her husband had done something amazingly cute on Facebook as an ode to his wife. I admitted I was kind of envious of the attention he gave her.  She gave me a look and said, that was the result of a full blown argument where she told him she had been living with a drone who apparently couldn't see her for the past three months.  
Another friend admitted that she and her spouse were in a rough patch after 16 years of marriage.
Rough patches are subjective. A rough patch could mean infidelity. A rough patch for me in college would have meant that my boyfriend decided to go out with his friends instead of me.  Now a rough patch means something that sometimes is unspoken.  Despite our best efforts, there are times where Don and I are just not on the same page.  I don't know what leads to this. Sometimes it can last a few days, sometimes a week.  It's as if our lines of communication have been disconnected.  Where you get into real trouble, is if you don't notice, or worse don't care.
It takes one of us to just come out and admit, that they have been distant. Or that they have been wrong, and that is hard.   Not to mention hurtful.  I don't talk about my marriage  with many other people, I figure if I have a concern, I should go to the source. After all, they are the only other one in it.   But I have friends, and I am a willing and good listener, and it seems that many women have similar problems.  What it comes down to is the feeling of being unheard.  I am also friends with a lot of married men and can say that 90% of the time, it is not intentional or even personal.
It goes back to the escape urge.  When Don has come out of one of those places where I feel that he doesn't care about me, he has told me I did nothing wrong. As a woman I automatically assume that I did, or that I'm ugly or boring and want to know how to fix it.
I think men especially just need quiet once in awhile. Settle into their own thoughts, and not be asked to solve everything.  Sometimes when you live quietly,  you see the beauty that is all around you. Don just needs to escape the noise every six months or so and I let him.

But it has taken me over a decade to figure that out.

I guess for me, love is more private than public and although I appreciate the thought of showing love for someone on a particular day, I won't go out of my way to show my spouse just because it's Feb. 14. I seem to  stumble across a quotes that just seems perfect for what I need to hear or read that day. Today this one showed up in my inbox:    

There is no remedy for love but to love more. - Henry David Thoreau

There are times when love hurts.  Not just romantic love, but all love. Rather than giving up, or fostering hate, just love them more.   In my case, when he hasn't done the dishes, or leaves his socks by the bed for the 400th time..... love more.  When he is distant or quiet, love more.  You can love someone more even when you don't want to.  It is as simple as giving thanks for them, even when you want to karate chop them.  This is what I hope to master in the next decade or maybe next couple of decades.

When I worked in a coffee shop an old guy would come in and get the same thing everyday, a medium coffee, black with two ice cubes.  It was usually at an off time around 11 a.m.  He would just sit and watch people.  Sometimes I would sit down with him, mostly because I wanted to get off my feet.  But one day he said" Do you want to know the secret to a good marriage?"  I wasn't even engaged at this point, but of course I said yes. I have never forgotten  him or what he said and I find his words creeping into my thoughts often.

He said "Every night I would roll over and look at my wife and think I got the better end of the stick, and every night she would look at me and think the same thing."

Love more.

Another Shooting

I hate that I need to write this. You have heard the news I'm sure. Another shooting.  It seems like it is a headline everyday.  I try my hardest to keep my sons in the dark about this subject.   It comes on the television news and I turn it off, it comes on the radio, I turn it off, it pops up on my computer screen, I close my laptop.  But last week it happened so close to home it was hard to stop the constant media attention to it.

It happened at a local grocery store chain.  The one that we shop. The only one my boys know about.  It wasn't the location that we shop at, but in a town close by.  Two women were killed. One was 20 and the other was 44.  It didn't take long for me to figure out that one of the victims was the sister of a friend.  A girl I went to high school with.  It hit home figuratively and literally.

But because it didn't happen to me,  I'm on the sideline. A spectator in someone else's horror story.  But this time, it is someone I know, who I can picture hearing the news and can envision her world fall apart.

My oldest son has been having nightmares lately.  The other night it was about our dog, Wally getting beaten to death by a gang.  He wakes up and relives his dream with the same amount of terror.  I do what I can to calm him down and bring him back to reality. Show him that Wally is alive and let him know he is ok.

Yesterday I announced to the house that I was going to the store.  I do this about twice a week in hopes that someone will go with me but usually everyone hides and I don't hear anything until I have drudged all the groceries into kitchen. Suddenly they become interested.

Yesterday wasn't any different except right before I left Parker asked if he could come with me.  I told him that he was welcome too, but that he was not getting a chocolate chocolate chip Frappacino assuming that was his motivation. He said he knew and just wanted to come with me.

As I pulled into the parking lot, he asked if this was the same store that the shooter had killed that "mom".  I told him no, and that we were safe. Trying to believe it myself. But in the back of my mind, I too was thinking about it.  As we walked in, he asked what he should do if a shooter did come in.   I don't want to avoid the conversation, but I am hoping to forget that this is our reality. I tried to speak quietly out of respect to anyone who may also be feeling nervous shopping.

I tried my hardest to not seem alarmed, and continued to walk and talk saying that if this were to happen, which it won't,  that he was to run.  Run as fast and as hard and as far as he can away from trouble.

"But what about you?"

I told him that I will take care of myself.

"But I don't want to leave you." What if you get shot and nobody is there to help you?" "What if you just got shot in your knee, and just needed someone to carry you?" "If I run away, I wouldn't be able to help you when you need it."

I told him I was tough and that I have lived a good life and I want him to have that opportunity too, so run as fast and as far away as he can. I was trying to pacify his worry, but it came out harsher than I had hoped.

By this time we are in the produce aisle and I wanted to end this conversation.  I turn around and get him a Grande chocolate chocolate chip Frappacino even though it's 7:00 at night.

It's no wonder he has been having violent nightmares. His brain is trying to process harm done to someone innocent. In his mind innocence is represented by his beloved dog.  When I was ten, my biggest fear were fictional characters like witches or ghosts. Kids are forced to face some real adult fears yet, they don't have the ability to process it.

I want to bring him back to childhood. A childhood that I remember.  His childhood reality is much scarier than mine ever was and as a mother, even I don't know how to help him.

The magnitude of his words didn't hit me until this morning.  I guess I was busy trying to hide the fact that I am just as scared as he is and even more afraid that this is a legitimate fear and yes, it could happen to me, or you or anyone. The truth is,  I don't believe that there is a safe place anymore.   Like a punch in the stomach I realized that the only reason he wanted to come with me was to protect me.

I didn't mean to, but I completely disregarded is natural urge to protect his mother.  I guess I always believed that I should be the protector.  I never thought in a million years that my son would feel the need to accompany me to the grocery store so that he could carry me to safety in the event that I was shot.

That is too heavy of a burden for a 10 year old to have to bear.  If there is one thing I am proud of, was that his natural instinct was to help me and not chose to fight back.  A ten year old boy who loves to play video games, and who loves Nerf guns and army men knows that the solution is not to fight back, but to help.  A solution of compassion and peace.

I have fear for my son's future and the problems that they will face. More innocent lives are going to be lost as long as guns can easily get into the hands of the wrong people.

I have faith that he, along with his peers will be part of the solution.

Fifty Shades of Red

My husband is a teacher and every year we are invited to a faculty party. To spice things up they have a white elephant book exchange. If you have been living a life that is not filled with office parties then you may not be familiar with white elephant exchange.  Basically, you have a number, you pick a gift, unwrap it, and if someone wants your gift they can take it. Then you can take another person's gift. This could go on for all eternity.  I once went to a White Elephant exchange where some people got into fisticuffs over a pampered chef chopper.

This is a little different because the people who attend this party are really well read,  predominately catholic,  and I believe most of them have their doctorates in something that

a. I cant pronounce.
b. Didn't know existed.

We attended the same party last year, and because my husband was a new hire, we chose to bring a safe book on budget planning.  However, I remembered that someone had brought the Joy of Sex and it was a hit.  You know, the 70's version with a lot of hair that your friends parents had hidden in their basement.

Don didn't seem to recall this, but I was adamant in my recollection... now I'm wondering if I made the entire thing up. 
So this year we decided to take along a popular trilogy. As a joke of course, but yes in fact I did read it, maybe in record time, but who needs to know that anyway.

As I watched every other gift get opened I came to the realization that this was some serious sophisticated literature. Stuff that Barnes and Noble doesn't even carry.  Books about the Pope, others about dead presidents. Fasting, books about growing a sustainable garden. History.  The rules are as follows, when someone opens your book, you share why you liked it and why you chose to give it.

I was sinking deeper and deeper into the overstuffed sofa.  We are surrounded by my husband's colleagues. Why did we think this was a good idea?  As I looked around, none of these people were going to think this was funny. Even if they hadn't heard of the NY Times best seller, I'm sure the handcuffs on the cover was going to give it away. 

I wanted to run to my car and find any crusty book hidden beneath the seats and make up something about the sentimental value of it, but we all know I would only be able to find a coupon book with Moe's and Chinese take out coupon's ripped out of it.  There was no hope.  It was inevitable.

Finally, our gift was chosen and unwrapped in front of everyone.  Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed.  For a moment frozen in time nobody said anything.  I couldn't see anyone because at this point I was covering my face.  My husband said... this is for a very sophisticated reader and people chuckled out of kindness. My face was the color of a strawberry. But the poor guy doesn't even really know what is between those well worn pages.  If he did,  he may have very well taken me into the Red Room... Fifty Shades humor, I doubt anyone will get that. I roll my eyes...again, Fifty Shades humor... I will stop now.

If you did get that, you are one of the million of other women who read it, but don't want to admit they did.   It got passed around a few times and it ended up with my therapist.  I didn't mention he was there too? Yes. And maybe I will have to start seeing him again after this soiree.

The truth is, I'm not an intellectual. I have two letters after my name B.A. , not 6 (or more).  And eating that wasn't an easy feat.  I admire people who find enjoyment in reading.  I admire the time they can spend reading.   I average about 4 books a year and the only reason is because I belong to a book club.  Ironically,  I love to write. I can get lost in that and there are times when I'm shocked that people like to read it.

I love films. I love plays, I love operas, I love audio books, and strangely, I still love to be read to. But the thought of sitting down and reading an entire book in one sitting would require the use the handcuffs...  I just can't do it.

I left the place feeling slightly embarrassed.  I should know my audience.  As we drove home I vented to Don.  I wished I had read more as a kid instead of watching sitcoms, then maybe I wouldn't have the attention span which requires a commercial break every 10 minutes.  He said, you are who you are, don't apologize for it. 

I find that I do that a lot. He is right. In the presence of what I perceive as brilliance I tend to become a wallflower and observe.  Fearful of saying the wrong thing and looking stupid.   But as I get older I have found that brilliance isn't just the amount of knowledge in your head, but the brightness you bring to the room which can generate from all sorts of other sources.

I don't have to look far to feel the warmth of my friends.   The only thing that extinguishes my light is the shadow of doubt and I'm the only one that is casting it.  I can only hope that the warmth I feel is a reflection of the light I give, weather it is Fifty shades of Grey or Red.

With that said, next year Don is picking the book. 

Why don't you put on a little lipstick

I went to a fantastic event this past weekend.  It combined a trinity of my favorite things. Art, wine,  and friends. As I get older I prefer this kind of event to just going out.  Well, who am I kidding. I don't "just go out" anymore.  I need to have a reason. Going out takes a lot of preparation. First, if possible a nap.  I can't be expected to be up past 10 if I haven't had an extra hour of sleep.  Secondly, a babysitter.   As I was getting ready I was thinking about my college days.  It would usually be a group of girls and around 9 PM we would all start getting ready, listening to music, contorting our bodies over each other to get the best light in the one good mirror in the apartment.  Changing our outfits two or three times, stopping by an ATM on the way.  We wouldn't usually arrive to our destination until after my current bedtime.

A lot has changed.  I have to schedule my shower between making dinner, giving baths, wiping a butt, fixing a lego airplane that fell apart and being the referee in the constant battles that occur between 4 boys.  So what should take me an hour takes me three.  What hasn't changed is the numerous outfit changes but for different reasons.  If any article of my clothing makes me look even the slightest bit pregnant, I can't wear it.  If it poofs anywhere it shouldn't I can't wear it. If I'm showing too much cleavage, I can't wear it.  Too much leg, can't wear it.  I have always loved fashion, but all of these restrictions make my only option: black.   I still hit the ATM but its usually on the way home to pay the babysitter and outrageous amount that makes me re-think my career path.

I could wear a ball gown and my son's wouldn't notice but if I wear lipstick they always make sure to tell me how pretty I look. I could have only a bathrobe on and wear lipstick and they would immediately take notice.

Thankfully this event was themed with the art and we were asked to wear black and white. So I fit right in.  My husband had left early, and the first skirt I tried on was too short. The second made me look 3 months pregnant and the last was perfect.  Except for the back zipper part.  It was fitted so I couldn't zip it and spin it so I enlisted the 2 older son's to help me.  After a lot of sweat, a broken toothpick (long story) we got it zipped.  Sometimes I wonder what memories they are going to suppress and at the worst time as an adult remember. They deserve at least a few pro-Bono therapy sessions for all the  help they have given their mom with my numerous wardrobe malfunctions.

When I arrive I immediately take notice in other women's outfit choices. I know it takes effort whether you have kids or not.  But what is weird is that women are the hardest not only on themselves but other women.   Women are mean.  Mean in a way that would make a grown man cry if he ever experienced it. A woman may compliment you to your face and immediately make fun of you as soon as you turn around.   Women like to compare themselves to other women and hope they win.   We have all had fashion misses,  I'm all about expressing oneself, but their is a BIG difference between expressing and exposing.

I have mentioned previously that I have had a heck of a time with female friendships.  A couple friendships have ended very badly.  When I look back as to why, it was always about a guy.  But even as a married woman, with not one but four dependents plus a dog, I can somehow give the wrong impression. The impression that I want your husband.  I can assure you that even if your husband looked like the late great Desi Arnez I would not try to move in and snatch him.  I have more sausages in my cart than a Ball Park vender.

I often wonder why women view each other as competition. What are we competing for? If she is thinner than her, does that make her more of a threat? To what? If anything my husband would leave me for a heavier woman because at least he would know she was a good cook.  Ut-oh, maybe I should be worried.  Back in college, girls were looking for guys, I understand the competition, but now my race is over.

This year I'm trying to not judge other woman in an effort to make myself feel better. I'm super guilty of this.   A perfect example of this was the Golden Globes wrap up today.  Women's images put side by side in competition as to who wore it better.  I bet each of those women dieted, spray tanned, worked out and tried their hardest to look their best.  To be publicly humiliated and voted on is no different then the girls at the junior high table whispering about your new Guess overalls. (Yes, that wound is still fresh)  But now, with the internet they can do it autonomously.

Rather than judging each other, acknowledge the work and thought that each of us put in just trying to look our best.  Our best is enough and I think men sometimes forget to tell us that.  And we have to ask, and then we get mad that they didn't notice without you asking.   I was in a grocery store on a Sunday morning and two old ladies passed each other decked out in their Sunday best.  They stopped their carts, and told each other they looked fabulous. No joke. I felt bad that I was in my yoga pants.  They get it. They know that sometimes just acknowledgment on our efforts makes us feel beautiful.

Before I left, Jack asked me if I was wearing lipstick, I said yes and immediately he told me I looked pretty. I later found out that Don had told them that if I have lipstick on, they should give me a compliment.   If that is the only lesson they learn to make a women feel good, then they are on the right path.... because it worked. 




 

These are a few of my favorite things

I was on Facebook today and was prompted to click an icon that said " Look at your year in review"
As if I didn't know what had happened all year, I decided to click on it.   According to Facebook my highlights were the birthdays, anniversaries and the last picture of our beloved dog.
But to me, the best things of 2013 can't even be defined in a picture, and even words at times.

One day when I was  having one of my non-rational panic attacks I started freaking out to Don about a fitted sheet.  Those things seriously, never fit right.  In the middle of my tantrum, while pulling my hardest to fit the sheet on the corner, I fell on my face.  When I looked up, Don was standing there blinking his eyes rapidly. When I asked him what he was doing, he explained he was taking mental pictures of me because it was hilarious.  It made me want to strangle him and hug him at the same time.  He made me realize that I was freaking out about a fitted sheet. And it wasn't that there was a hidden meaning behind it, the sheet had gotten the best of me.
Those are highlights that Facebook seemed to miss, but it gave me the idea to take mental snapshots so when I am feeling overwhelmed or sad for no reason, I can sit back, close my eyes and flip through my mental album.  Sure I may look crazy as I walk into work smiling, but its better than frowning.

A few moments I will hold close to me are as simple as my mom walking in my front door with a fresh cup from Starbucks for no reason.  Watching my Dad sketch.  The smell of a clean bathroom after Don cleaned it.  Seeing a picture or a status update that really cracks me up.
Discovering a quote like this:

Worrying does not empty tomorrow of its troubles. It empties today of its strength. 

Finding friends that share my interests.  A co-worker who can dance and make me laugh.  The sound of silence when all the boys have finally fallen asleep.  The little tinge of excitement I get when they sleepily walk down the stairs with their bedheads in the morning.  Watching my husband work.

Getting published and feeling that my parents and my best friend are not the only ones who like reading my writing.

The feeling I get after I realized that I have made it to the gym every morning even when I haven't felt like it.   The even more rewarding feeling that I have accepted my post-baby body.  Any buzzfeed list that includes dogs.

 These are just a few of the very unexciting things I celebrate when things are starting to look bleak.  

Most of the time its the things that are done behind the scenes that make me the most proud.  I have accomplished things at work that have earned me recognition and that make me feel validated. But the fact that just this morning, I managed to wrangle 4 monkeys out the door including 16 gloves, 4 pairs of snow pants, 4 fleeces, 4 hats, 4 pairs of snow pants, 4 scarves, 16 boots, 4 coats and 4 dietary sound lunches and arrive to school early is down right a miracle. That deserves some kind of recognition, but I don't get an award, or a mass email congratulating me. All I get is the satisfaction of  a deep breath and  a pat on the back ( from myself).  If I can do that day after day, I'm pretty sure I can do anything. 

2013 had its highlights and low-lights.  I'm thankful that I am able to recognize the difference. The very best moments have nothing to do with my job or my bank account, an exciting trip or a new baby. They are simple moments and feelings that I have made snapshots in my memory for days when I seem to forget.

Facebook couldn't possibly be able to capture that.  However it did capture this as a highlight . And I will leave you with it because it makes me laugh, not only because we received an American Girl catalog, but also because of the boys visceral reaction to deface it. These kind of things are the highlights of my year and will stay closest to my heart. 

Seeing Red.

This past weekend I experienced a feeling I have never felt before. Complete full fledged anger towards my son.  I actually saw red.  I have been irritated with his behavior in the past, but this incident brought me to an entirely new level.
Let me explain the situation. My husband's family was visiting for Thanksgiving. It was a full house filled with copious amounts of food and people. Thankfully wine also.   My attention was not exactly focused on my boys. In fact, I can't really remember seeing the older ones  for three days, except at the dinner table.
I thought the visit went really well, but on the Sunday after Thanksgiving the bank called us at home.  They said our account had been compromised. They listed the charges and I told them that they were absolutely fraudulent.   I worried a bit, but figured it was taken care of and went about my business of listening to my mother-in-law talk, eating, eating and  more eating.
Then it hit me like a wrecking ball. (thank you Miley Cyrus).  The charges were to iTunes.  When we set up my son's iPod touch, we used our card to purchase a few apps.  We never took it off.  Monument dumb mistake.  I immediately approached him in private and asked him if he had downloaded any apps. He admitted that he had, but thought it was going to the gift card.  (the gift card that probably ran out of funds 6 months ago).  I tried so hard not to flip out, but made him very aware that I was mad. Even kicking a pillow for dramatic flare.  I told him he was going to need to pay back the  $75 dollars and he was grounded for 2 weeks.
I was angry, but thought it was a learning experience.  On Monday I got to work and checked my account. What I saw will give me nightmares for a long time.

iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes iTunes iTunes iTunesiTunes iTunes 

So many charges I couldn't see strait.  When he said he had downloaded apps I thought it was maybe five. This was a list a mile long.  He was playing a game and apparently every time it asked if you wanted to purchase a life or token he said yes.

I called my bank in a complete panic. They said they were continuing to post from the previous day and I needed to call iTunes.  If you have tried calling iTunes before you will know that you would have better luck getting Jesus on a direct line.

Finally I reached an actual person named Kevin.  I explained the situation. He looked at our account and was as shocked as I was.  He asked if I knew the total. I said, at this point, it was probably around $200. He took a deep breath and told me it was $1265!

Let me write that again for emphasis.  Twelve hundred sixty five freaking dollars. I'm not an openly emotional person, but I started to cry. Panic. Cry. Poor Kevin.  He tried to console me. And then a Christmas miracle happened.  He told me that would refund it. 100% of it.  I couldn't believe it. I didn't ask him to, he just knew it was an honest mistake. He also told me that he could see how a 10 year old could be misled in this particular game.

My relief was quickly overcome with what was now rage towards my son.  I wanted to call his school and get him on the phone.  I wanted to drive there and pull him out of class. But to say what?  He already knew I was mad. I was forced to wait for the next 8 hours and either simmer or cool off.  I could have gone either way.

Thankfully for my son I cooled off.  When I spoke with him at home I was surprisingly calm.  I mentioned that what he did was very irresponsible and that he needed to earn back every penny.  I told him that he spent money he doesn't have and has nothing to show for it.   I didn't tell him the total, but told him it was more than he could make in the next 10 years with his chores.

We decided that he wasn't going to pay us back, but rather forward.  He needed to do hours and hours of service.  Whether that means helping an older person shovel their walkway, or helping out at the church.  He agreed.

He also is grounded from his iPod touch until some undecided time in 2014.

Surprisingly it opened up a conversation about addiction. He explained that when he was playing it, he felt like he couldn't stop.  He realized he should and kept going, and then was shameful for what he had done.   I would be a hypocrite if I didn't admit I have been in similar situations.  I understood. It may not have been a video game, but I have felt out of control in other areas in my life.  Addiction runs in our families.  Maybe having this little nugget of information will help him when he is tempted as an adult.

Parents have to learn to deal with their child's indiscretions. Take some responsibility for them.  Even major ones. Each convicted felon has a mother.  She has to find it in her heart to forgive even if she knows her child is guilty.

This morning my son got ready as usual and the extra time he would have spent playing his iPod was spent helping his little brothers get ready for school.

In less than a week I have witnessed tremendous growth not only in his stature, but in his character and you can't possibly put a price tag on that.

Lou Ferrigno you have been served.

My son Jack is slightly obsessed with Lou Ferrigno. Not the Hulk as much as Lou Ferrigno playing the Hulk.  This all began when he was 5 and my mom got him the complete box set of the 1978 series, The Incredible Hulk.  At this point, Lou trumps Santa in this boys mind.   He has made several videos thinking that Lou could see them. This one made me laugh.  Dinner at Jack's house? How could Lou refuse? So if Lou does see this, you have been served. A sweet invite from a boy who really likes it when you get angry.

Love is an Understatement

This past weekend, Don was out of town for work.  I go into mama hen mode when he is gone.  I have to make sure all my eggs are in their nest and I need to know where they are at all times.  If they permitted me to sit on them, I probably would. The weather was bitter cold so it made it easy for me to convince the boys to stay inside. It isn't a secret that I have control issues, which leads to worry issues, which could result in a complete breakdown.

We live near a popular university that had a football game this weekend. This means that by noon strangers have parked in front of our house and throughout the day there is a constant stream of strangers.  So just another reason to keep everyone on lockdown.  The boys don't know they are on lock down, all they know is that I let them watch more TV and play more games than usual.

However, even with that, they start to go a little crazy.  I had a couple drop off a gift they had seen and wanted to give to us.  It was the book "Go The Fuck To Sleep". And a bottle of wine. It. Was. Perfect. When they were there the boys were bouncing all over them.  Jack and Oscar took off their shirts and were leaping, climbing and backflipping off the couch.  I really couldn't get a word in edgewise.

They left and went to dinner. I secretly envied them, their kids are older, but I wondered what freedom felt like as they got into their car and didn't have to buckle anyone else up.  I went to my computer and wrote them a thank you note.

As a one woman show I find myself in overdrive.  As I was cleaning up after dinner I had a thought.  Am I totally f*cking up the boys?  Really.  By this time, I had 2 on a computer and the other 2 were watching a movie. I had given them a dinner of macaroni and cheese.   Shouldn't I be doing some kind of art with them? Should I read them a book? Should I be asking them to practice their instruments?  Should I have given them a healthier dinner?

My tsunami of doubt continued. Only one of my sons is in a sport.  Should the others ones be enrolled? Did I fail them by missing the cut off? Are they going to feel like losers in high school because I didn't push them to play a sport at a younger age? Am I selfish? Do I yell too much? They should see me read more. I never open a book around them because I can't get through a page without being interrupted.
Do they think all I do is look at my phone and make food and clean?

I poured myself a glass of wine and sat on the couch, and looked at my messages.  I had already received a reply from my friend.  It said, "When we think of you, Don  and the boys, LOVE is an understatement".

It was like he could hear all the doubts in my head and delivered a simple sentence that I desperately needed..  He was right. If there is one thing I am not failing to do is love the boys. I devour them. I may not be an avid reader, but if there is one thing I am capable of doing is loving.  The people who I have loved or love know this.  If our friends could see that with what they witnessed? Then it must be there.

When everyone was finally in bed, I sat down and watched a show. It was Oprah (of course) and she was interviewing a couple who lost their son Ben in the Sandy Hook Tragedy.  They said that when you protect your heart and make decisions based on fear, you don't allow love to come in. It is best, even in the face of evil that you make the choice to love.  I can do that! But first I need to chill the fu*k out with the fear thoughts.

Prior to this I watched a documentary on JFK. By this time I was a blubbering mess.  Jackie Kennedy put on a brave face and was fearless.

At some point, I have to let the boys leave the nest.  It is my apprehention, not theirs that kept them inside.  The next day I allowed Jack to go to a friends house….all by himself.  I watched as he crossed the street. He looked both ways twice and cautiously ran across.

When he returned home I gave him a huge hug and I will admit, I was happy my little bird was back.  The one thing the mother of Ben said she missed was the feeling of her 6 year old's touch.  As I hugged Jack I appreciated that even more now. His squishy face and fuzzy hair couldn't be more perfect and I soaked it in.

I said a little prayer of gratitude, and decided to focus on love.  Which the word love, is truly an understatement.

Say Something.

2013 is the year of the list.  The internet is filled with lists like, What You Should Never Say to a Working Mom or What You Should Never Say to a Stay at Home Mom, or what never to say to a single dad, mom, grandparent, or your spouse, partner, son, daughter or dog.

I recently read a list about what you should never say to a working mother.  The problem is this, yes I am a working mother, but at one point I was a stay at home mother.  I went back to work for several reasons, but one of which was that my husband is a teacher and we have four boys who have enormous appetites.  Maybe there is a list on what to say to a woman whose husband doesn't make six figures, but I have yet to see that one. What category do I fit in?  If everyone read those lists,  I don't think anyone would be able to say anything to me…ever.

I have openly shared my struggle with postpartum depression.  The one thing that got me out of bed was the knowledge that my neighbors and friends would probably be stopping by to drop off dinner and visit.   I don't think they could or would have said anything wrong because they have common sense. . If they did, they would have been able to see the expression on my face that it hurt me. Thank goodness they didn't follow a list,  I would have been very lonely.

Sometimes finding the right thing to say is hard, but always worrying about saying the wrong thing, or offending someone will result in you looking like a mime.

When my grandfather was on his death-bed my father went to be with him out of state.  I wanted to call him but was so afraid of saying the wrong thing. I finally got the courage to pick up the phone.  I thought my dad would answer but my Grandpa did instead. His crackling familiar voice said "Hello?" and I hung up the phone.  I freaked.  He died.  I never said goodbye because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing to my 95-year-old Grandpa.  There is nothing I could have said that would have been wrong.  The guilt of not saying anything is worse than saying something unfitting.

A friend of mine lost her toddler in an accident.  I went to the funeral and then I stopped speaking to her for over a year.  I avoided her because I didn't know what to say.  One day when I was in Target we ran into each other.  I was frozen because I felt that no words were adequate for the death of a child.  Before I could say anything I just started crying and told her that I didn't know what to say.  She gave me a hug and said, "that is the best thing you could have said." Again, guilt for not saying anything for fear of it being inadequate, hurt more than any words could have.

If we go around worrying so much that we are going to offend someone, then we will never speak to each other. Its alarming enough that I communicate virtually with my friends more than I speak face to face.  But that is truely the only form of communication where you can read someones expressions.   I have found that I have offended more people by email than I have in person.  They interpreted my words the wrong way, or I used bold when I shouldn't have.

The worst case scenario would be that you did offend someone.  Is that really that bad?  There isn't a one-size fits all aptitude test of offense.  If a stay at home mom said to me, " I bet you really miss your kids while you are at work" I wouldn't  crawl in a hole and die. I would be honest, and say "sometimes".  I doubt her intention would be to inflict pain or guilt, and if it were, then we shouldn't be friends or acquaintances.

I think a really useful list would be something like "Things to Never Say to a TSA agent" that makes sense.  What doesn't make sense is making a one size fits all list that will inhibit conversation and instill the fear of saying the wrong thing.

I have said my share of embarrassing things, I once told a one armed man with a child in an elevator that he must have is hands full.  That was a long ride, but honestly I was the one embarrassed and can laugh about it now.

It is better to say something that is honest and heartfelt with good intuitions than nothing at all. Maybe we should focus on what to say to someone rather than what not to say.

What to do when your head is going to explode.

I would like to go on a public forum and announce that this past weekend I did two weeks worth of laundry for each member of my family. Folded it, and put it all away neatly while organizing all the closets....by color.   I made this announcement at home and nobody seemed to care, despite my crescendo of this proclamation in various rooms of the house.

Unless you do something like feed the needy or clean up litter it is not considered note worthy. Especially when you are doing both of those things in your own home.
This is going to be the type of blog posts my husband dislikes. Strongly.  I am not trying to make this a husband-bashing-angry-mama  post.  To his credit, he was working on a project all weekend.  My husband is a very good project inventor. He creates projects that include some type of lumber that I am clueless about.  And will take him exactly until 9:30 PM on Sunday night to complete.

I insisted that he took our youngest one with him to the store so I could fold in peace. That is all I asked.  But upon returning my 3 year old proudly came up to me and said " Mommy we got you your favorite thing at the tore (he is still working on his "s's") I was hoping for a venti coffee when I asked him what it was. "Wood! Big Big Wood" "Did Daddy tell you to say that?" " Yep!" and he was off.
I really thought that maybe my husband was offering a little gift of coffee to acknowledge the pain staking work of folding 400 pairs of min-boxer shorts.

This made me mad.

So I made sure to pick up the two empty laundry baskets, a stack of folded towels and teeter downstairs so Don could see me struggling.  The problem with this scene is that he knows I love Crossfit, attend regularly,  and can lift him if I wanted to. He isn't buying the struggle, so he laughs.

This made me really mad.

Sure enough, he had purchased a bunch of really big wood.  The pun was intended however.   But I can assure you, really big wood is NOT my favorite thing and NOT going to be my favorite thing for a really long time.   I explained that I wasn't even half way through my Mount Elliott of laundry and he explained that next time "we" shouldn't let it get so bad. And also reminded me that the boys do their own laundry.

This made me really really mad.

Maybe it was the use of "we" or the fact that he really believes that our 10. 9, 6 and 3 year old,  do their own laundry.  Yes, they help by throwing a pair of socks worn for 3 minutes into their hamper, and they also put the laundry into the washer. But who carries their hamper down, measures the detergent  (so it isn't the size of the venti coffee I wanted and didn't get).   That would be Moi.
If I let our 3 year old do his own laundry it would be Wednesday before he would get everything into the washer.  The truth is, it is faster to do it myself.

I decided to retreat back to our boys room and fold even more socks.  I found that systematically doing something with my hands occupied them and  kept me from wrapping them around Don's neck.
And that is what I did to keep my head from exploding. 

It actually helped.  As I searched for matching socks and saw the pile of pairs grow, and the pile of clean laundry decrease, it actually made me feel accomplished.  Proud even.  When I became a parent I never thought of the laundry.  Of course, I wouldn't change anything, well maybe live in a warmer climate where they wear flip flops all day.

But if you happen to see my boys, a take a look at their socks. They may match, or they may not, but know that someone who loves them very much washed them and took care to make sure their toes wouldn't get cold. Sometimes, (well, most of the time) I feel like I'm wasting away crucial quality moments of my life on mundane tasks. Doing laundry may not be the moment that defines me as a mother or a moment that anyone remembers but not all puzzle pieces are the exciting ones, some are just the background, but all are important to complete the picture.

Girl Power

We have friends whose daughter is our son Jack's best friend. I don't remember when they became best friends, all I know is that they are addicted to each other's company like crack.  They are a lot alike and nothing makes Jack happier than the thought of having her over.
Last night her parents asked if we could babysit for a couple hours. I didn't share this information with Jack until the last possible moment.  When I told him,  rainbows shot out of his eye sockets. I really meant it when I said she is like Jack's crack.

We set the table for dinner and  Jack and Oscar came to fistacuffs about who was going to sit next her.  We set her placemat in the middle (God help her).  Jack searched for anything pink he could find, which he was unsuccessful so he settled for red.

I must admit, I was kind of excited to have her over too.  Having a boy dominated house can be exhausting at times.  I forget that a girl can bring a different energy to a room.  Not a less vibrant one, just different.  She is the same size as our 3 year old but 2 years older. But, Oscar is a really big kid.  This confuses him and he thinks she is his friend and not Jack's. Hence, the fisticuffs.

As we sat down to dinner, she was bombarded with flying questions. Each of the boys went crazy. Its not like we haven't ever had a dinner guest, but the fact that she was a girl changed everything.  Each of them, even our 10 year old was fighting for her attention but in different ways.  The oldest wanted to say something cool, like, "I can eat an entire chicken". The middle stated the obvious "You look like your sister".  Jack was trying just as hard in his own way by pointing out the cup he chose for her. And Oscar's tactic was the most obvious and coincidentally least effective. He just kept repeating her name over and over and louder and louder while poking her with his finger.
She is the youngest of four and this did not phase her in the slightest.  I'm sure she is used to being the center of attention too. She commands it.

Don and I just sat, shocked at these four caveman that we created, fighting for the attention of a five year old girl.  She amazingly answered all of their questions simultaneously, at least in a way where they all felt satisfied.

I started to see the power that she had.  When this little girl spoke, the boys listened.  I am mystified as to when this stops happening… but it does.  I discovered in high school that I could get more attention with my body than my words.  I wish someone would have told me to not rely on that. Because as we all know, your body fades but your voice doesn't.

When does a woman grow up and start apologizing all the time? When does she feel the need to be polite rather than speak her mind? When does she start believing that she isn't smart? How is this little girl reminding me that the best qualities a woman can have are the same ones she possessed when she was 5?

I wanted to bottle her confidence and drink it myself.   After a long 7 minute dinner the boys scattered around the house.  She and Jack played with Oscar as their shadow.  When it was time to put on their pajamas I dug whatever I could find and gave it to them.  As long as it has a cape Oscar is cool with just about anything I chose.  I could lay out a pile of garbage in the shape of pajama pants and Jack wouldn't care.  I didn't want our guest to feel left out so I offered her a pair of  teddy bear jammies. She took one look at them, looked at me, and said " I don't like those".  She didn't feel the need to apologize for her opinion, she just stated it.  She also didn't feel the need to put on pajamas because everyone else was. She was comfortable just the way she was.

God didn't grant me with a baby girl.  I don't know why.  But what I do know is that I can be the best role model of a woman that I can be for my sons. I will strive to do my best to not apologize for who I am, to be comfortable in my skin and to speak my mind.  I will also show them that despite the media insisting that being a gentleman is a sign of weaknesses, that it does just the opposite. It  makes you stronger.

My hope is that she never loses her magnetism or ability to speak her mind. And that Jack stays in touch with her, at least through junior high.

She may be little but packs a powerful rainbow punch.

From the Outside

On any given day you may find my Mom parked in an Arby's parking lot facing Main Street in Elkhart, Indiana.  She will spend hours there.  You see, to her its not an Arby's. It is her front porch.  The house she grew up in, was in that very spot before they knocked it down and built a Burger Chef, which is now an Arby's.  If she parks her car in just the right spot it is like she is sitting on her front porch, same view of the railroad tracks, and if she squints, it is easy to pretend there is a 2 lane highway rather than four.  If she rolls her windows up she can almost hear her family inside.
This is the closest thing she has to being in her childhood home.  My grandparents have both past away, my uncle is gone also.  Around the holidays it is a particularly hard time for her.
I am lucky to have my parents living in the same home that I grew up in.  We recently spent the night there and I slept under the same glow in the dark stars that I put on my ceiling in 1986.  They still work too.  From 0 -18 years I slept in that room. I know every inch of it by heart. I know that the scratches on the inside of my closet door are from the cat I tried to hide and keep in my closet.  Or that the dent on the wall is from moving my bed to every possible place in a square room.
When I walk into my parents house it hugs me. Its my house too.  There are so many memories that have all been jumbled into one. I spotted my son looking out one of the huge windows in the front and in watching him I was brought back to my small kid self doing the same thing.  I can tell you what the wood trim smells like, even tastes like.  I liked to lick things as a kid apparently.  I can look out at the exact place where the tree was that I fell from and broke my arm.  My parents cut it down after that.  Sometime I would love to sit in silence in their house. I'm sure it would speak volumes to me...if I listened.
I'm thankful to have this opportunity where I can sit in the living room, round the corner to the dining room and see my dad standing at the kitchen window and my mom sitting at the table.   They always look up and acknowledge me and they always have.  I'm sure the same scenario has played out since I was crawling into the kitchen.   Unlike my mom who has to rely on a parking spot to feel at home, I can go right to the very spot.  I had a great childhood and having them simply notice my presence reflects that.
Last night I went grocery shopping and since the time change, it is dark by 6 PM.  I don't  know why, but I was compelled to stop in front of our house instead of parking in the garage in the back.  I sat there as a voyeur  into my own life.
It is obvious that the house is alive.  It may be over 80 years old, but it is energetic. Every light is on. This would usually make me mad, but in this case I was happy because I could see what was going on.  Don was in the kitchen while Parker was doing his homework at the kitchen bar next the tower of lunch boxes.  I couldn't see Oscar because he is too short, but my guess was that he was following his brother Jack as he ran from room to room. I could see Jack's messy hair and that was about it.  Fin was standing in the living room practicing the violin.  I saw the over flowing laundry basket sitting on the bed in the front room.   On the dining room table was a heap of backpacks.  As I looked from the outside I found myself so much more grateful  than when I'm on the inside.  When I am in it, its hard to appreciate the beauty I could so clearly see now.  I focus on the laundry and not the laughter.
I'm not naive to realize that in a flash this will be over.  Just like Marge.

Marge is a women in her 70's that knocked on our door one Sunday afternoon.  It was a particularly lazy day and the house was a monumental mess.  When I opened the door she had tears in her eyes as she explained that her parents built the house and she lived in it from 1931-1940.  Not only did she live in it, she was born in it.   She asked if she could come in,  I welcomed her and apologized for it's appearance.  As soon as she walked in she said it was just like coming home.  She marveled at the fireplace. She went right for the kitchen and stood exactly where the boys stand when they are hungry.  We went on a tour for over an hour and she shared funny stories. Turns out, Oscar isn't the only baby to have fallen down the stairs.  Before she left she gave me a picture of her sister and herself sitting with their Mother on our same front steps.
She gave me a hug and explained that shortly after they moved her mother got sick and died.  Our house is the only place she has memories of her.   She had since moved away and was passing through and decided to finally knock on the door.  A few years back she had done the very thing I was doing. She parked her car outside and looked in, afraid to bother us.
We have since kept in touch.  She said she was so so happy to see the house that she loved as a kid being taken care of. I again mentioned that it usually isn't so messy and she responded with, " with 4 boys, if it wasn't messy I would be suspicious".
A house is only bricks and mortar.  But just like a person, it is what is on the inside that matters.
After a few minutes I decided to pull around and was greeted happily with four boys eager to see what food I brought home.  

The people sitting on the front steps may have changed, but the same feeling remains. The view from the outside gave me great perspective, but for now I prefer to be on the inside.