What in the heck is a Mamalogue?

If you are my friend or follow me on social media you may have heard this word a lot lately. Mamalogue.  Pronounced Mama- log.  Not to be confused with Mammogram-ologue. It is a creative play on the word Monologue which is a speech given by an actor on stage or screen.
With that said, I cannot take full credit for coming up with the word Mamalogue.  A dear friend of mine suggested it and surprisingly he is a guy, and I went with it.
Last year I had dinner with some girlfriends and we were all sharing stories about motherhood. Hysterical, raw stories about this job we have taken on and were not prepared for despite thinking we were.  I also thought of the times when I had been in down, feeling overwhelmed and where I felt like I couldn't do it anymore.  I turned to my girlfriends then too.  Even friends who do not have kids, were a great support.
On my ride home I thought about how my friend had told a story so hilarious that I wanted to call all my friends and tell them, I wanted to put it on Facebook, Twitter, my blog, bathroom stalls.  But it wasn't my story to tell. It was hers.  But I wanted EVERYONE to hear it because it made me laugh and I knew I couldn't possibly share it with the same flare as she did.
And that is when the concept of the Mamalogues was born.  The very next day I called my friends, and asked (ok told) them that I needed them to participate in a project I was doing. They agreed not knowing what they were getting into.  I found a venue to perform, asked my friends to write out a story. I probably should have considered that most of them weren't writers or actors and some of them weren't even mothers but I was on a mission.  I didn't ask for a specific topic, my only stipulation was that it was true.  Then I told them that they would be performing (reading) it in front of an audience.
Did you notice I left that audience part out until they agreed?  My friends were trepidations to say the least.  They asked if they could self medicate or consume large amounts of alcohol prior. I of course said,"yes" and "yes". 
Within in one week of putting tickets up for sale we had sold out.  To be honest, I wasn't even going to charge at first, but I needed to cover the cost of the venue.  We not only sold out, we sold way out, like out of the venue, we had to add additional seats.

As we sat backstage the night of the performance I looked around at these women who were willing to put themselves out there and be vulnerable in front of strangers just because I asked them to.  I was overwhelmed with gratitude and realized that as women, we often put ourselves out there to help, not only our family but our friends as well. The original cast will always hold a special place in my heart.

You never know how your story may impact another person until you share it. Most women don't have a platform to share their stories, so I created one.

I gave mama's a microphone.

Needless to say it was an enormous success.  Before I could think, I was asked when the next one was.  So 10 months to the day we are having our second one.  Remember the girl who told the funny story? Her name is Kate and she is now the producer. We believe so much in the power of the spoken word that we collaborated to make this Mamalogues even more spectacular.  We changed the cast to offer other woman a chance to share their stories. We have a few from the previous cast only because they add an element of entertainment that we couldn't go without. (Thieneman sisters)

You may have an idea of what to expect but  I can assure you it is so much more. And its not just for women. I know several....ok three men who went to the last one and enjoyed it too. And the fact that they were our husband's is inconsequential.

The next Mamalogues is on July 11 at Legends at Notre Dame. Click here for tickets.

* Since this original publication the second Mamalogues sold out in 2 days and a third performance had to be added. Which sold out in an hour. 

2013 Cast

Alyson Herzig, Julie Flory,  Jessi Loyd,  Kate Knopick Coates,  Maria McKenna,  Becky Cressy, 

Josi Doyle,  Sarah Jollay, Amy Atkinson, Noelle Elliott

2014 Cast 

Sandra Cho, Aimee Carlson, Kate Knopick Coates, Jenn Lechtanski, Steph Patka, Priscilla Jamora, Kelly Blair, Laura Ambrose, Colleen Spano, Carolyn Hunt, Maria McKenna, Sarah Jollay, Megan Michele,  Martha Thieneman, Noelle Elliott

2015 Cast 

Noelle Elliott, Kate Knopick Coates, Alyson Herzig, Beth Ferlic, Becky Cressy,  Robyn Welling, Priscilla Jamora, Elizabeth Carris, Sandy Cho, Martha Theineman, Maria McKenna, Sarah Jollay

Aimee Carlson, Ceci Redmond, Jill Straub , Amy Rasler.  

Skinny Jeans

After seeing my oldest son day after day in high water pants I finally decided to take him shopping with me.  He responded to this idea with the excitement of a turtle.  His back hunched over and he moaned and groaned as he slowly made his way to the car.  My boys have not caught the fashion bug.  Yet, they love wearing t-shirts with Minecraft characters on them.  Which proves my point, they have yet to discover their style.

I am probably to blame for this.  In my effort to compensate for not having a girl I have found tremendous pleasure in dressing them.  I lay out their clothes and they put on whatever is there.  On the days when I let them pick out their clothes (the days we have nowhere to go) they put on the first thing they pull out of their drawer, it could be a thermal shirt with shorts, not match and be 3 sizes too small.  I really have stunted their ability to pick out outfits. I'm not trying to create little metro-sexuals, but there is nothing quite like a guy with style.

When I met my husband he had style.  One of the things I admired and noticed about him was that he didn't dress like everyone else. In Los Angeles this can be hard to do.  He would go to a thrift shop before Mackelmore made it popular and pick out shirts that stood out. In fact Mackelmore was his roommate and I think the song was written about Don.  That isn't true…but it could be.  He would choose button down shirts from the 1950's and pull them off.  Unfortunately when we moved from California to the midwest he forgot to pack his style.  There are glimpses of it, but most of the time he dresses like a teacher whose mother has dressed him and actually, both of those are true.  He wears clothes that my mom and his mom give him for Christmas and birthdays and he is actually a teacher.  I love our mothers, but how many more Van Heusen shirt sets can a man wear? One too many in my opinion.  Once in awhile his coutour will reappear, but it as predictable as the weather.

So when Parker expressed a strong desire to purchase skinny jeans I was shocked. I was proud of him for having conviction in the direction of fashion, but why did it have to be skinny jeans?  There are very few people who look good in skinny jeans.  The obvious first one is skinny people, the second is rockstars. The problem is, everyone wears them.  Which is ironic since obesity rates are higher than they have ever been.  But since he really wanted them, I decided it was ok.  It was then that the clouds opened up and saving grace shined down on me.  They did not have his size. They had every other size 8,12,16, but not one 14 in any color.  My son is 11 but wears a size 14.  Oddly, skinny jeans must be popular in this age group.

I want the boys to express their style, I really do, but I know he would hate wearing those jeans, and more importantly I would hate looking at him in those jeans. My son's have my body.  They are not skinny nor fat.  They are muscly.  Which for a guy is great. For a girl… not so much.

I have accepted even sort of embraced my muscular physic but I accept there are certain things I just don't look good in. Cue- skinny jeans.  I look like a frog.

When Parker realized that he could not get skinny jeans he was disappointed.  I must admit, my heart broke a little watching him search every single pair of jeans in the skinny section knowing he couldn't wear any of them. Admittedly, I had been there too…just last week.

Because he is a boy and already dislikes the mall, he didn't even entertain the thought of going to a different store.

He ended up picking out a pink shirt. He has a fascination with pigs.  He collects pig stuff, wants to be called Porky (despite Don and I telling him that is not the best nickname for several reasons) and he even refuses to eat any pig products.

When I was younger, my parents let me express myself with hair and clothes.  I appreciate that, I don't appreciate photo evidence of it however. Especially the mullet with a spiked top.  So if we stubble upon a pair of skinny jeans in his size, I will let Porky get them. I will just stand near by with scissors when he needs to take them off.

What really happened to the chocolate bunny

My mother-in-law likes to send the boys Easter gifts. Which translates to cheap chocolate and sugar rocks called jellybeans. Oscar bit off the eyeball of his bunny and put the rest in the refrigerator "for later". Every time I would open the door it would be staring at me, well if it wasn’t missing an eye it would be.
Today was the Monday after Spring Break. I won't get into the details but apparently everyone in the house had forgotten that Spring Break does not last forever and I was the one who had to break the bad news. To which the entire house wailed and flailed and it was all my fault.

That is when the bunny lost the tip of his ear. Just a nibble I thought. After several screaming matches I was able to get everyone into the car but before I went, I made sure to eat the tip of the other ear just to even it out.

I went to work and began to dig myself out of what appeared to be a black hole of emails. I had taken a whole 3 days off to go to a conference but my inbox looked like I was gone since 2006. I was afraid it was going to spill of the screen, spill onto the floor and wrap itself around the building. There is always that one person who discovers you have an out of office reply and decides it would be a perfect time to send you 500 messages.

Noon finally arrived and I decided to go home for lunch. As previously mentioned, I was out of town for 5 days which means the only food in the refrigerator was a cucumber, hummus and string cheese. And the bunny…. I decided to eat a healthy string cheese, cucumber and hummus sandwich minus the bread and chased it with the rest of the bunny’s ears. Oscar would never notice his ears were gone. It just looked like he had a flat top.

I returned to work to receive a text message from my husband that there would be a man staying at our house tonight. A man who is here from Virginia to observe my husband at work. Don is taking a two-year certification course and part of the program is to be observed (graded) in the middle of the year. That time had come. And in an effort to brown nose this man my husband decided to let him stay at our house. My response was not exactly joyful.

After work I received another text from Don. This time it was asking me to make a "quick" stop by the grocery store to pick up limes, sour cream, Jose Quervo mix and beer. If you are familiar with any super market you will know that each of those items are on the four opposite corners of each other. And, shopping at 5:30 when the rest of the world discovers that they don't have anything to eat for dinner either makes my shopping experience rather unpleasant. Don must have found tortillas and planned to make some time of Mexican dish.

I returned home starving because I had just walked the equivalent to 10 miles in the grocery store, In fact, I was famished… off with bunny's head…. and neck…and bow tie.

Next, Don shares with me that the gentleman visiting is old. I love old people, but I also know that margaritas and a dinner filled with spicy food and refried beans is probably not the best choice.

The man arrives and he is a nice houseguest, although I know nothing about him, other than the fact that the fate of my husband's certification is in his hands.

We are trying really hard to be good relaxed parents so that it is clear that we live Montessori, not only in the classroom, but at home too. (Not true). The boys are not in on this plan and are making us work for it. Thankfully, over break the two older boys have been taking care of the neighbors dog across the street. This gives me an out. I went over to make sure the boys have locked the neighbors doors properly and I discovered that they were already home. Our neighbor greeted me and thanked Parker for taking care of his dog. I felt the pride swell in my heart. My boys were responsible, reliable and trustworthy. I was looking forward to bragging about this to our dinner guest. But before I could, our neighbor also mentioned that Parker T.P.ed his daughter’s bedroom.

I tried not to look horrified. At that moment Parker disappeared. I was trying desperatly not to chase him, grab him by his arm and take him back to apologize. When I walked in the door, Parker had strategically placed himself between our houseguest and Don, knowing that this spot was amnesty from discipline. I needed to pull Parker out of the room without making it too obvious that we have little or no control of our children.  I craved a little bunny shoulder. Off went half of the bunny's body.

When Parker finally got up I cornered him and asked him about the T.P.-ing. He defended himself by saying he used the cheap toilet paper in the back of the closet and as much as this comforted me, I insisted that he march back over to the house and apologize immediately. This began a dialogue through our teeth and ended up with Parker dawdling back over the house to apologize to our neighbors.

He wanted me to go with him, but I told him he had to go alone, mainly because I couldn't face them myself out of complete embarrassment.

I peeked out the window as he agonizingly waited for them to answer door. He kept looking back at me. I could tell he wanted to Ding Dong & Ditch but he stayed planted. I watched as he apologized for violating their daughter’s room with toilet paper. It was tortuous to witness.

This is when the rest of the bunny was sacrificed in the name of stress. I couldn't watch this awkward situation where my son is apologizing to his friend’s parents. A friend who he may or may not secretly like. Understandably, I needed some kind of chocolate comfort.

Before I knew what I was doing, the bunny was gone. I wasn’t too worried because there are several things Oscar puts in the fridge “for later” and never thinks of again.

If I admit that I think his prank to TP a tween girl's room is brilliant, does that make me a bad mother? I will keep this knowledge sealed until he is at least 20. For now I need to conceal my admiration for his prank. I did tell him that he is never EVER to be in a girl's room when she isn't there. As soon as it came out of my mouth I realized that this was the only situation where that statement is applicable. But I hoped he wasn't really listening to me.

Parker seemed somewhat relieved and told me I had chocolate on my face. I wiped off any evidence and returned to the table to discuss with Don and his Guru, how eating organic food can really help a child reach his full potential. I really believe this by the way, just not right at this second.

At that very moment Oscar opened the refrigerator door asking where his chocolate bunny was. The more I ignored him the louder he got.  I listened as he accuses every one of his brothers.  Parker looked at me with one eyebrow raised. After forcing Parker to fess up, I suppose it was my turn to do the same.

I knelt down to Oscar's level and calmly explained to him that I ate his chocolate bunny, I figured he would understand and I could distract him with the promise of a story later. And like a typical four year old he fell to the ground and had an enormous tantrum. I could feel Don's angst and complete disbelief that I would actually eat our child's entire chocolate bunny in a day, specifically on a day that means so much to him.

As I scooped Oscar up I could hear our dinner guest tell Don that we have a beautiful family. Maybe it was the margarita or the fact that he is hard of hearing, but for whatever reason he was amused.

I hope that when he is reviewing Don's progress he will take into account our tumultuous backstory.

That our house if filled with sugar, chaos, toilet paper, mischief and most importantly honesty. And to some people that is beautiful.

The broken spirit

There have been a few moments in my life where I wish more than anything I could go back and delete them from not only my memory, but everyone else as well.   I was in church this past Sunday when the sermon prompted me to remember something I had buried deep down, in a place I only go to when everything else in my life seems to be going wrong.

I depend on this memory to feed the already mounting evidence that I have failed. 

Most of the memories I  would like to delete from my deleted files are moments of severe character lapses.  When I have disappointed myself.  Most were based out of fear. Fear of doing the right thing, and lacking the courage to do so.  I have learned from these experiences, but I have often wished I could go to a hypnotist and have them erased.  Seriously... I have actually looked into that.... but I know I wouldn't be able to make it through without laughing.  And what the heck would he be able to pullout of the depths of my brain?  I have been in several plays, with my luck I would start reciting Lady Macbeth and next thing you know I would be arrested for MURDER...

A long way of saying,  I just have to learn to deal.   The situation that was brought to the forefront was so simple yet complex at the same time.   My oldest was almost 2 and at that time we had another son who was around 6 months old.

Before Parker was born I went to a paint your own pottery studio. I picked out a huge plate and spent an entire day decorating it.  It was bright yellow, in the center I pained a cupcake with a single candle on it and wrote Happy Birthday across the top.  I spent the better portion of my day making a detailed confetti pattern around the edges. I finished it off with pinstripes and my signature.
This memory is so pleasant because with each paint stroke I dreamed about the baby that was growing inside of me.  What he would look like. I wanted this birthday plate to be the one that he would  use every birthday.  My mind took off  happily envisioning it as he grew.

Once it was fired and ready, I picked it up.  I proudly displayed it on our dining room table.  Anticipation of not only his birth but his first birthday on to a lifetime of family birthdays.
On his first birthday I finally put it to use.  Rather than give it to a one year old, we put his cake on it.  Every time I looked at it I was reminded of the excitement I felt making it.

After I had my second son things took a turn for the dark.  If my life was a play, this act would be set with dark lights.  The only luminance would come from upstage behind silhouettes of something that resembled humans.   In the midst of this darkness nothing sounded beautiful, nothing tasted sweet and it was hard to see any light from the bottom of the hole I was in.

While going through the motions of two boys under the age of two I began to resent everything.  As I was folding laundry I heard it.  A loud crash that echoed over Thomas the Train blaring from the TV.
I walked into the dining room to see the plate shattered in pieces across the floor.  Parker standing on a chair looking stunned.

I was seeing red. I looked at the plate I had spent so much time and thought making in a pile of nothing on the floor.  I lost my temper, and I focused it all in the direction of a 23 month old.  Yelling at him, blaming him for everything that was wrong in my life. I got on the floor trying to put it back together all while crying and asking him how he could do this to me.  When I was over having my breakdown I glanced up to see my only witness. A spotlight was shining on his face, which was now filled with terror and confusion.  He took off running upstairs and hid.

I didn't chase him.  I was too consumed with trying to put the pieces of a plate together that deep down I knew would never stick.  As if I'm watching it from an older wiser perspective now, I want to yell, why do you care so much about a stupid plate?

I don't know how much time passed but I found myself on the couch sitting under a blanket staring out the window.  Parker climbed up on couch, found a spot on my lap and sat facing me.  He put his arms around my neck and said " love you, mommy." His words were as genuine as his hug.

He had forgiven me. The damage I felt that I did to him was far more severe than what he had done to the plate.   How was I worthy of such unconditional forgiveness?

The point in life where the plate dropped needed to happen. I needed a rock bottom moment. To shatter the unrealistic expectations I had placed on myself to be a perfect mother.  I needed a good cry and see that the most important little person in my life at the time still loved me even though I felt that I didn't deserve it.

Rather than try and put the plate together I just threw it away.  I never made another one.  The largest piece of the plate that remained is the portion of the candle.  I have kept it in our china hutch.  A reminder to only me that there is a chance of lightness even in darkest of darkness.

Parker does not remember this incident at all thank God, but I do.  I'm glad I didn't have it erased by a hypnotist.  Despite the pain and regret this memory has caused me even 9 years later,  it has given me a lifelong challenge.

In moments of despondency, I can strive to forgive myself like someone who can forgive  me unconditionally and still offer tremendous love without a second thought. 

My single life fantasy

Yesterday a friend mine pointed out a single friend of his on Facebook.  He mentioned that she is quirky and funny and is single by choice.  Afterwards, I found myself delving into a self gratifying fantasy about what it would be like to be single.  I felt kind of guilty about this... for about three seconds and then I got lost in it.

This sounds so appealing to me because I was a habitual long term dater.  My first boyfriend was at the age of 7. His name was Noah and I liked him because his name was so similar to mine.   If only it were that easy, following Noah was Adam, Connor, Brian, Billy, Bruce, Adam II, Matt, John, Matt II Tom, Mike, a few other people, Adam III Greg, Greg II, Jon, Matt III, Mike II, Chad, Scott, (that who shall not be named), Oliver, Alex, David, Chad II, and finally Don at the age of 22.
They all string together with the longest stretch being about 3 months.  Apparently I liked guys with the same name too.  It wasn't that I was afraid of being alone,  I just really liked boys. And I have been very honest in sharing that I get along better with guys, even to this day. I'm thankful that my husband understands this. It took awhile, but he has had front row seats to a few of my train wreck of female relationships.  He prefers that I avoid the drama.  He was literally in the middle of a cat fight between my roommate and me about a couch cover and it scarred him for life.  Maybe that is why God never gave me a daughter.

Anyway, I honestly never thought of what it would like to be completely single until today.

If I were single I would probably still work out at 5 a.m. but would get up earlier because I would have to pick out my outfit to look cute and possibly do my hair.   I don't do that now, my poor friends who see me every day looking exactly what I looked like sleeping 20 minutes prior, except upright.

I would live in a cute apartment that would stay clean all the time because nobody would be there to mess it up except me.  Which would free up an enormous amount of time because I spend half of my free time now cleaning and picking up legos and socks.  Which means I could read a book... or two or three! Concluding, that being single would make me smarter. 

I would take a shower without an audience, unless I wanted one. I could look in the mirror, and see my belly button looking normal and where it is suppose to be in my torso. I won't even fantasize about what my single self's boobs would look like.  I would wear cute clothes to work that didn't have kleenex in the pockets. And I would wear matching bra and underwear sets.  My underwear drawer is in the state of emergency, so many holes, I don't know which are leg ones anymore. And speaking of work, I would leave 5 minutes before I had to be there and arrive on time.  I would drive a two-seater.

I would watch the OWN channel whenever I wanted and Dateline on repeat.  I would stock my refrigerator with only healthy food and not all the other crap the other people like to eat which tempts me into eating it and then feeling guilty about it.

I would go to happy hour.  I would see a movie. I would go out.  It wouldn't matter where, just out.  I would use a basket while shopping instead of a cart.  I would carry a small purse without 100 year old fruit snacks stuck to the bottom.

Now this is where my fantasy gets a little sensetive so if you are my husband and are reading this, please skip this part.
I would date.  I haven't "dated" since 2000 and I'm sure in the age of social media, things have changed.  But I would go on dates with anyone and everything.  Men, women, black, white, red, purple and orange, rich, poor, old and young(ish) .  Dating doesn't have to be romantic, it can just be fun, getting out of your comfort zone to see what other people find interesting and exploring places you would have never dreamed to go to.

I would sleep.  Honestly, I think that is what this entire fantasy boils down to.  I'm tired.  I haven't had a real nights sleep since I was 25.  As a non-single person I find my self less worried about missing out  (FOMO) and more worried about not getting enough sleep (FOMS). When I wake up I try and calculate how many hours I actually slept and the results are never satisfactory.  Then I stress about the fact that I haven't slept a solid 7 hours and think about it all day and blame this to be the reason I make mistakes, have wrinkles and eat muffins.

My fantasy started to turn South when I realized that my single self wanted kids and I was now entering the age of "advanced maternity".  And how in the world was I going to find someone to procreate with before my fertile years were past me?  And would someone think all my weirdness was cute or annoying?  And living in the Midwest are there any men who are not married around here?

I started to have an anxiety attack and decided that the single life may be good for some, but not for me.  I like to be taken care of. To have someone reach the top shelf or protect me from murders who break into our house. Or actually, a pot rack falling from the ceiling that I thought was a murderer coming to kill me. At least Don reacted quickly to the threatening sauce pan as I froze in terror.

And truthfully, would I really know how to sleep with out a knee in my rib cage or a butt in my face? Probably not.  My brain was telling me to mentally abort this fantasy.  Fantasizing isn't bad, it doesn't hurt anyone and it can really make you appreciate what you have.  Even if it's sticky, dirty little hand perfectly fit inside of yours like a nesting doll.  Exactly where it should be just like me.

An Ode to the Beastie Boy's Mom

We recently purchased a new car and subsequently entered into the 21st century of automobiles. This new car has Bluetooth which means I can listen to my playlist from my phone! I'm sure that is nothing new, but I have been in a minivan bubble the past decade.   No more mixed tapes for me.  OK, our van wasn't that old, and it did have a cd player that had a pirate CD stuck in it since 2006.

This morning I decided to expose the boys to one of my favorite groups, the Beastie Boys.  As we started to listen I realized I hadn't listened to them in awhile... like since I have been a mother. I never realized how mom-bashing these guys were.  "Your mom busted in and says what's that noise, oh, mom is just jealous it's the Beasty boys". Or "you ask your mom please, but she still says NO!" or
"your mom took away your best porno mag." Well, good for her. 
How could they have been so cruel as to publicly criticize their mother who by all accounts was protecting them from popping their ear drums, keeping them in school and taking away their porno mags which depicted women in an unrealistic and degrading light? And to think I agreed with them back in the day. She sounds like a great mom to me.

Before my beastie boys could sing along I changed my mind.  As I started to flip through my play list I realized that they shouldn't be listening to any of it.  Rump shaker,  Shoop, Gin and juice.   Why was my playlist so full of meaningless music and why could I sing every single word of it?

My son's birthday is tomorrow and one of the things he likes is T-shirts with funny graphics.  He has one that has a TV talking to a remote control saying "You're so controlling!"  So he asked for some new shirts. I'm too late to order any online so I decided to go to Spencer's.   I haven't been in a Spencer's since I was a teen but if I remembered, they had funny stuff.
I walked in and immediately had to adjust my eyes because it was so dark.  As my eyes are adjusting I almost run into the girl who is working there who must also like to dress like rainbow bright, but not bright, more like rainbow dark, or rainbow goth, although it's not goth anymore it's emo.

I make my way to the T-shirts and once I read them I had to hold my jaw up from hitting the floor.  How can you even enter this store under the age of 18?  In fact, if you are under 18 stop reading this, actually you shouldn't be reading this anyway, you should be in school.

I cringe as I type this, but here are some of the tame t-shirts.

I'm not a gynecologist but I will take a look.
This isn't a beer belly its a gas tank for my sex machine.
You give me a "heart" on

These are actually the mild ones. The rest are very graphic and the rest have a pot reference.   If this is what the youth of our country is willing to wear in public then we are in some serious trouble.

When I was in high school my family took a trip to Florida for Spring Break. My brother took a friend and I took a friend.  While shopping, I got a Grateful dead t-shirt with Jerry bears copulating in various positions.  Several things are wrong with this. First is,  that I  even considered myself a dead head at 14. Second is that I thought I could wear this somewhere when I  couldn't even buy it myself and made my friend buy it because I was too embarrassed.
My brother discovered my t-shirt and threatened me for the next 5 years that he would tell our parents.  All he would have to say is "T-Shirt" and it would shut me up. Guilt finally got the best of me and I ended up burying it in the trash.

As I made my way to the back of Spencer's it looks more like a Pleasure land museum.  Seriously, objects that I didn't even know existed.  What happened to funny toy cats doing flips? Or monkey's playing a drum?  That was the Spencer's I remember. I made a quick exit and added Spencer's to the list of places I need to keep the boys away from right under the Lion's Den.  (If you have ever driven to Florida from Indiana you know what I am talking about).

My birthday is coming up very soon. I will be 37.  I cannot believe it is possible. I remember my 21st birthday like it was yesterday. That is a lie. I don't remember my 21st birthday at all.  I remember my 20th birthday like it was yesterday and now I'm entering my late 30's.

Is this why I have become the mother the Beastie Boys were singing about?  I always thought I would be unlike my mom,  the cool mom.  The mom that all the boys friends think is awesome.  I have already blown this when my son had a sleep over and I asked them all to get their jammies on.   He was just about to do it until he saw the expression on his friends faces.   Not only do I have a generational gap but I also have a gender gap. When I was a little girl we couldn't wait to get our jammies on at a slumber party. Nowadays young boys wear their stinky clothes to bed and God forbid you call anything but a sleep over.

What ever happened to the coolness of a pajama jammy jam. Kid N Play did it and it was cool.

I'll stop now because I am only dating myself. But what I do know, is that I want nothing more to be the uncool mom.  I want to be the most lame parent on the block if it means keeping my sons from wearing T-shirt's that have subliminal meanings behind the text that read  "I'm an idiot" and "my mom must be an idiot too for letting me step out of the house wearing this stupid T-shirt".

Parenting is not for the weak-hearted.  I have 2 more years until my son is a teenager, I should be able to get my heart in shape before then. Rather than singing along with the Beastie Boys I will follow the lead of their mom.  She seemed to know what she was doing and for the record, I highly doubt she was jealous that you were the Beastie Boys. She probably busted in to put away your clean underwear she had just folded.

The Movie Theater Incident

As a wife and mother I have become accustom to repeating myself. As a wife and mother I have become accustom to repeating myself.

Ironically one of my major flaws that I have struggled with since I was an infant is patience.  My close friends and family know this all too well. When I want something, I want it immediately.  I thought that was a struggle, but little did I know that wanting someone else to do something, and do it immediately would require patience of a Buddhist monk.

This past weekend my oldest had his first (and possibly his last) sleep over with six 11 and 12 year old boys).  While Don was taking the herd bowling I decided to take out an additional mortgage and take the three younger ones to a movie at the non-dollar theater.  Before doing so, I made a stop at Wal-Mart.  I should end the blog post right now, because that was a mistake....it is ALWAYS a mistake.

A little back-story: For years, I have told the boys that if they don't sit properly and keep their hands to themselves in the car, a police officer will pull us over and give us a ticket because he wants them to be safe.  Fate would have it, that whenever I have had to say this, a police officer will be in eye shot.  It's great. It makes me feel powerful and all-knowing.

Before walking into Wal-Mart I instructed all of them, especially Oscar to stick with me, Jack added that if he didn't, the police would come and give him a ticket and stick it on his forehead. (I guess that is what they do). Luck would have it, at that very moment an off duty police car passed us in the parking lot and by God his two boys were sitting  in the back seat.  I was hitting the jackpot.   The boys were shocked. Mommy was actually right.  Little kids can get arrested.

This is a horrible lie. But it works. Well, I thought it did.

As soon as we walk into Wal-Mart my kids become the stereotypical faces of wal-mart kids. The place makes them crazy. Oscar flopped down on the floor in front of a motorized cart. Jack started begging for bubblegum and Fin was holding an enormous Mountain Dew with puppy dog eyes.  Pair this with my impatience and you are set for one successful trip to Wal-Mart.   We gathered our movie candy, stood in line for all eternity and returned to our van.

The entire way to the theater I explained why I would hold their candy and give it to them once we were seated.  I explained that we were sneaking it in because the movie candy price was four times what we paid for at Wal-Mart. I repeating it.  What Oscar heard was "blah blah candy blah" twice.   I had also brought some soda from the party at home, along with ziplock bags of popcorn.   The boys watched as I tried to camouflage my goods in order to sneak them into the theater.  I gave them a pep talk before getting out of the van.  Do not say a word. I will give you the candy when we are in our seats.  Ready set? You Bet!

I'm sure the ticket guy finds it odd that I have an enormous purse but choose to hold my wallet, but I try not to sweat it. It's all for the kids.  While I'm handing the ticket man our tickets, Oscar who had delayed speech until he was 3 decided to proclaim that I had popcorn in my coat, soda in my pockets and candy in my purse.  I looked down in shock and at that moment Jack was doing a stage voice volume level SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! and Fin was hitting Oscar in the shoulder.  The man looked down at me and slowly ripped my ticket stubs.  Giving me a look that clearly said "I'm watching you lady" and he let me through.  I have never been so nervous in my life. Well, OK, I have been. My fear of cops is not unfounded, but I will leave that to another blog post sometime. 

Despite leaving to take my 3-year-old charismatic orator to the bathroom a dozen times, the movie was a hit.

When we got to the car I asked what their favorite part of the movie was, Fin said  it was when Mr. Peabody danced, Oscar said when Sherman said poop and Jack said when I snuck in all the candy to the theater.  Damn it.

I was hoping he would have forgotten about that.  Kids learn by example.  Is it so hard for me to just say no? Although it may seem like a little white lie, this morning it was shoved down my throat when I caught one of them in a lie.

Learning that one of my sons had lied about taking something from his brother immediately sends my mind to the State Penitentiary and speaking through the glass as I see my 18 year old son in an orange jump suit with ear lobe gauges the size of soup cans and tear drop tattoos on his face.

I decide that today we were going to be a little late.  I sit them all down on the couch and wanted to scream "DO NOT FOLLOW WHAT I DO, JUST DO WHAT I SAY!" but I can't.

I explain that lying is wrong, whether it is to a ticket guy in the theater or to a brother or to yourself.

They all understood.. I think. I don't know? Again, I may need to repeat myself or better yet, show them that when you have done something wrong it is better to just admit it, ask for forgiveness and move on.

As we were sitting at the corner stop light I saw the police car we see every day.  I glanced in my review mirror and all were sitting properly in their seat belts, hands to themselves. I figured I can let that little lie simmer for a couple more years.  A little fear of the law may help them in college...

What Difference Does it Make?

I was sitting on my couch the other day, staring at the wall.  For lent we have added another screen free day in our home.  That is a total of 3 days where we turn off all screens.  This is intended for the boys, but we go along with it.  I mostly go along with it, except when I sneak into the bathroom where my phone is hidden so I can lock the door and check social media and peruse any other pointless hobbies I have or decide to take up.
After an hour or so I went back to my spot on the couch  and continue my deep contemplation about life.  I really cannot give justice to the chaos that surrounds me.  It involves high levels of noise, swords, tattling and nudity, and that is just Don.
In my bathroom solace I had just read about a woman who has gone all over the world teaching the importance of sustainable living. She was at least 5...ok 10 years younger than me.  She is making a huge difference in the world.   And she documents it all on Facebook and Twitter...and Instagram so the proof will outlive her.
Ask any graduate and they will say their goal in life is to make a difference. Nobody really has a clue at how they are going to achieve this, but most everyone would agree that they hope to leave some kind of mark.  I had those same dreams too.
Besides writing, I have a job.  By all accounts, a great job, I should be thankful for. I enjoy it. Is is making a difference? Nope.  I do my work, I come home, do laundry, make lunches, clean, clean some more and go to bed. Only to repeat the exact same thing the next day and the day after that.  Then one day I wake up and  find myself staring at a wall and wondering how I arrived at this point. And what ever happened to making a difference?
At that point my oldest came in and sat next to me because he is avoiding the dishes.  "What are you doing?" He asked. "I'm staring at the wall".  He didn't ask why or even seem bothered by my lack of purpose. Dishes sounded more entertaining so he left and went to the kitchen.
 Parker is my oldest and his birthday is coming up soon.  He loves to hear the story of his birth. Like a worn out recording,  I tell him the same story.
At 3:00 a.m. on March 25, 2003 you came into this world and in that exact moment, I became a mom.  At 2: 59 a.m. I didn't have a clue and thought I knew love, but when I saw you, I knew I wasn't even close.  In an instant I could see you not as a baby, but as a boy, then a teen, growing into a man. It's hard to explain, but I didn't just see you, I saw the whole world.

He never asks what I mean by that, he just accepts it.  And I'm glad because when I said it, I didn't even know what I meant.  When I look into any of my son's eyes I see everything.  All that has happened in history that lead to their existence,  I can see God and I see infinite possibilities.

What difference am I going to make in the world?  My difference will be made through my children.
 I won't see my name in lights, I won't receive the Nobel Peace Prize, I won't be the first United States female president, and I won't find a cure for Cancer. My contribution will live, not on social media, but live on through out time. And some day when my son meets his first child, he will finally understand what I meant when I said I could see the world.

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.