I am turning into Mama Boucher

When my first son Parker was born I vividly remember wishing for time to pass. I felt that his next step would make me feel less paranoid.  I thought, when he rolls over, then I won't worry so much that he will die of suffocation.  Then when he could roll over I thought, when he sits up we won't have to worry if his head is going to be flat.  The list goes on and on with each milestone.
I was stupid.

I haven't stopped worrying.  My brother who is in his 40's recently broke his finger golfing.  I don't understand it either. In fact, I even made fun of him making reference to Lucy Li.  Anyway, he has to have surgery next week.  My mom is physically sick about it.  It's his left hand for God's sake.

 But,  I have to say I kind of understand how she feels.

 I kind of wish I would have spent more time in each step than skipping to the next one.

Now that Parker is 11, I have discovered something about myself that I could have never anticipated.  He is extremely social.  Given the fact that both Don and I are very social, that isn't the surprising part.    He would rather spend time with his friends than with his family… well, mostly me.  The surprising part is how this makes me feel.

I feel sad, rejected, lonely.  Like he is choosing his friends over me.  And honestly, he really is.  I feel that a part of our set is gone.  The Beatles couldn't have sung Yellow Submarine without Ringo, it would have sucked.   I look forward to when he will walk in the door. Our  family harmony is restored.   I think it is more about not being needed.  Granted I have 3 additional boys who need me desperately, but he is the one who used to fight to sit next to me at the table.  Now he doesn't care where he sits as long as he eats enough.

Wasn't this the step I was looking forward to? After all, we have tried to raise him to be self sufficient.  To problem solve. To confidently walk out the door and know his way home.  I should be proud of him, but I'm reluctant to say I'm a little hurt.

When you rush up the stairs, sometimes you skip steps and trip and fall on your face. The point of running up the stairs fast was pointless because you are on your face and now it has taken you longer than if you would have just taken one step at a time.

 And this is one of those times for me. I'm already envisioning him going off to college, meeting someone and never coming back.

Writing that was hard because even I know how morainic and psycho and somewhat mommy-dearest that sounds. I'm worried that I will find myself like Kathy Bates in Misery, except I won't smash his ankles, I will just spoil him to death in an effort to keep him home. Or worse, Kathy Bates in Waterboy,

"You don't have what they call "the social skills." That's why you never have any friends, 'cept fo' yo' mama."

Ok I'm starting to sound even more f'ed up than I thought, but I write to figure things out. So lucky for you, you get a front row seat in the Crazy Show.

The most important thing I can do is not let him know any of this.  I have found myself saying no to him when he wants to go outside to play with friends. When he asks me why, I have absolutely no reason.  He has done his chores, he has cleaned up his mess, there is nothing left to say.  I have given him lame excuses like, you have to wake up early tomorrow.  To which he responds "But Mom, its only 5:15."

These feelings are shocking to me because I always thought my mom was happy when I left to spend the night at a friends.  Maybe she was, or maybe she just kept her thoughts to herself. I prefer the latter.

My husband is out of town for the summer.  Parker has stepped it up a notch.  He mows the lawn, he herds his brothers when we are in public, he runs through the house turning off lights.   He is 11 after all, but it's difficult for me to consider that "old" when half of my wardrobe was purchased in 2001, 2 years before his birth.

He is just growing up. Now I just need to step out of the way and let him. One step at a time.

Not On My Watch

We just returned from an epic vacation. If your idea of epic is taking four boys through security in an airport and flying with them in a packed airplane on a flight that leaves at 6:30 a.m.  Or if holding your 4 year old's penis in a water bottle you just had to chug because the flight attendant wouldn't let you get up from your seat because it was during take off, even if it is a potty emergency. Or if a series of amusement parks and standing in line for hours in the Florida summer heat to watch your child dangling from a roller coaster propelling through the air is your idea of adventure. All while seeing black spots from dehydration because you refuse to pay $4.00 for a toddler size bottle of water. If that is your idea of epic, then yes, we had an epic vacation.    I'm not an amusement park girl, mainly because roller coasters scare the crap out of me. I get motion sick while standing still in the ocean. I'm afraid of heights, I get nervous on a step ladder.  But all fun aside, an incident happened that left me frozen in fear.

We had just arrived to my brother-in-laws house in Orlando.  They graciously open their home to us for an entire week.  They have two boys. That makes six boys total, four adults…not enough. No amount of adults is ever enough for six boys.  All of us were sitting at the pool. The boys were all jumping in, playing, burning off energy.  Finally, after a day of traveling we were able to sit back and relax.
Before we left both of us made a point to reconnect to the here and now.  We (okay, I) am attached to my phone. I know its a bad habit, that is why I made the effort to not let it be a distraction.

We were laughing, having a good time catching up, all while all four of us faced the pool.  After a few minutes it occurred to me that Oscar  was in the same spot in the center of the pool.  He had floaties on, and his cousin who is the same age splashed around in his floaties.  I called his name to see if he was okay.  He didn't respond.  But he was looking at me.  My tone got a little panicked and all the adults recognized it.  He was literally 8 feet away from me.  I just kept calling his name, thinking he was just zoning out.  Before I knew what was happening Don jumped in the pool fully clothed to grab him.

I froze.   My son was starting to drown and four adults were right there clueless to it.  I am writing this to educate anyone who reads it.  They say drowning is silent.  It is.  He had floaties on, but one had a slow leak. He is not a great swimmer.  Hence the floaties.  Although his nose and eyes were above the water, his mouth wasn't. He is four.  He didn't think to breath. He just stopped and he too, froze.

After Don got him out he began to cough and cry. The poor little guy was just as scared as we were.  The thing that haunts me, is that he was looking right at me unable to communicate he was in trouble, and I was sitting there laughing and having fun.

Trusting any floatation devise to keep your child from drowning is like trusting your arm instead of  a seatbelt to keep your child in the passenger seat as you slam on the brakes. You may know this already. I thought I did.

We were all shaken.  Even four adults supervising, was not enough.  It literally takes two seconds. I would research it for you, but you can do it yourself. I can't bear to see just how close we actually were just yet.   I wasn't even looking at my phone.  I may not have noticed if I had been.  Hell, I may have been taking a picture. Viewing my children through a lens instead of my own eyes.

On a day to day basis I am constantly trying to capture the moment and missing it all at the same time.

Oscar was fine.  It could have been a lot worse. A lot.  I immediately went to Target and purchased a better flotation device. Not that I will rely on it, but at least it will be functioning.  On the way there I had a complete breakdown.  That scared me more than any roller coaster ever could.   Just like when a coaster ride is over and you still feel like you are on it, the after shocks were vibrating through my body at such a strong intensity that the only way to release it was to cry. My mind knew everything was fine, but my body was taking awhile to catch up.

My point is this. Please think of me when you are at a pool with your child.  A phrase I say often in regards to harm done to my children or accidents,which Don teases me about is "Not on my watch".  Now I just need to live up to it, and really watch.  In this case it may have saved his life.

To Vajazzle or Not to Vajazzle

I may be late to this trend. I have been pretty busy, you know working, raising kids, grocery shopping, keeping up on world news and gun violence in our nation that I missed the latest craze (of 2011) Vajazzeling. 

In case anyone missed it, vajazzeling is when a woman, (or man I guess) gets jewels glued to their FUPA.  I can't think of a better use of my time, than going to a salon and getting my entire lady parts waxed, and if that wasn't fun enough, getting jewels glued to the freshly ripe skin. 

Depending on your location, you can get vajazzled for as little as $20.  But because I live in the Midwest the only place to get vajazzled is at Hobby Lobby.  Well, not exactly, but you can purchase the jewels (except on Sunday) to vajazzle yourself. I wonder if Hobby Lobby realizes that they are vajazzle accomplices? 

The point of this trend baffles me.  I cannot understand the need for reflective materials in my crotch.  Men don't need any guidance in finding a woman's vagina.   Men are just seaman and a vagina is a Lighthouse in the night. They don't need to add crystals to make it even more detectable.  The motion of the ocean will guide them there instinctively.

So who is this for? I can't remember the last time I went out to the club, and flashed my vajazzled self to a crowd. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I actually went to a club, let alone went to a club and flashed my Un-vajazzeled self to a crowd.  If it is for yourself,  I suppose you could stand in front of the bathroom mirror admiring your private parts. Maybe if I vajazzled, I would. But I highly doubt it.

So let's say you got it for your partner.  I can confidently say, that my husband would not notice.  Except maybe when he scraped himself on the rigid edges of the jewels.  For single ladies, if you tell a guy on your first date that you are vajazzled I don't think the first thing that will come to his mind is class. But he may see dollars. Particular singles. 

Even though it is just $20 I would rather spend that $20 on something that makes me happy, like anything but putting jewels on my vagina.  Sorry kids, I can't buy you hot lunch because I'm making a hot lunch of myself.  

Maybe it is my age. Maybe it is my level of sophistication. Or maybe its the thought that plastic is needed to make something that is already beautiful, more appealing by adding stupid cheap jewels to it that were probably produced in China and will be recalled in a month because they caused chemical burns. 

Save the jewels for your tiara on your head if you must. At least it will be directing people to your most important asset, your mind. 

2 little lambs

Yesterday I had a hard time waking up.  This is usually not a problem for me, but I had a heaviness in my body that made it difficult to move.  I skipped my morning workout and made my way into the kitchen.  My stomach was aching, a nagging pain that persisted and I couldn't figure out why.  A rush of warmth ran through my body stopping right at my heart. My body remembered the date, my brain didn't.   I didn't say anything to anyone, not even my husband.

I was 3 months pregnant with our fourth baby.  I had only told close family and friends and a few co-workers because it was obvious that my belly was bloated all the time.  Just like the previous times, we had gotten pregnant quickly and the only thing I was nervous about was that our next baby was going to be so close in age with Jack, four kids in 5 1/2 years. We were crazy.

The previous week I had had my blood work done and things looked good so I was surprised when I got a call from my doctor. He said that he wanted me to have tests done again because my numbers had dropped since my first round early on.  He said he just wanted to be sure everything was OK.  So I left on my lunch break and despite already giving enough blood for a vampire thanksgiving, had even more blood drawn.

The next day as I was picking up my son from pre-school,  my cell phone rang. I cheerfully answered and I could tell by my doctors calm tone that he was going to tell me bad news.  My son's class was outside so I took the call in his classroom. I paced back and forth past the paintings, blocks and dolls as my doctor told me that I was going to miscarry.  I didn't want to believe this so I kept him on the phone by asking the same question. "Are you sure?" hoping he would give me a different answer.  He didn't. He told me what to expect, cramping, bleeding… I had already tuned him out.

I stood in the classroom staring out the window at my son with a secret that only I knew.  I didn't want to believe it was true I stood there until one of the teachers startled me.   I fought back tears and put on a happy persona and retrieved my son.   As we drove home it was silent and the only sounds I could hear were those of a swarm of angry protesters outside of the University which I work. Pro-Life activists were protesting because President Obama was the Commencement speaker.   Planes flew overhead with  Pro-Life banners.  They waved a horribly graphic photo of a dead fetus. Screaming that it is not a choice, it is a life!  It felt like they were screaming at me.  I wanted to scream right back, no it's not a choice, if it were I would have a live baby inside of me instead of a dead one.

The images they held were too much for me and I couldn't hold back the tears.  They didn't stop for 3 days.

Despite believing that the doctor was wrong, he wasn't.  He had explained the pain, what it would look like, when it would likely happen exactly as it did.  I woke up at 4 in the morning and miscarried.  Don woke up to find me in the bathroom crying, repeating that it was over, it was over, it was over.     He was still trying to process the information I had told him the night before.  The reality was jarring for him as well and he didn't know what to do or say so he left me alone. Very alone.

We had become so confident in our baby making ability.  Having 3 babies without any problems gave us a false untouchable cockiness.   The best way Don helped me was by calling everyone who knew.  I couldn't say the words.

I felt foolish mourning a child that nobody knew about.  A tiny baby that was never born still was able to leave a huge empty hole in my body.

I vowed that I could never do this again.  I couldn't see past my failure to carry a baby and felt like it was all my fault. Eventually Don convinced me that we should try again. With hesitation I agreed.  Three months later we got pregnant and miscarried again.   The second time was just as hard as the first. And that solidified my argument that something was wrong with me, something I did or didn't do was causing my body to reject babies.

I don't know if the pain deep in my belly yesterday was a coincidence or a body memory but it briefly took me back to that moment.

It's hard to silently mourn something that didn't physically come to fruition, and whose presence was only felt by me. My other son's don't even know it happened and at times I feel bad about not acknowledging their sibling's existence. But it would only cause them pain and  I can't burden anyone, especially a child with a pain that they could never understand.

Any mother who has carried a baby knows that feeling.  That feeling that each child I carried felt distinct and unique and those two were not any different. The amount of meaning attached to one's life can't be determined by the amount of time they spend on the Earth.  I would be lying if I said I didn't miss them.

People say that when you miscarry you grieve what could have been. No, I grieved what wasn't.
And it is done in solitude.  And I understand that.

When I awoke this morning the physical pain was gone.  As I checked my phone I noticed a photo I had taken the day before and had set as my home screen. It is of two little lambs at a farm where my son had a birthday party.  I smiled and thought sometimes signs are given to you that you miss.

I woke up our fourth son and gave thanks that we didn't lose hope.

And recognized that although the outcome for those little souls wasn't survival, it doesn't mean they are not alive in me. I just have to take the time to notice the good things all around me.

Worry is my middle name

There was a brief moment in my life that I think about from time to time. It was the only moment that I didn't know how to worry.

It is a preserved memory because it stands out as a lone instance.  I was four, I climbed up a television antenna outside of my house, onto the roof and was running back and forth amazed with the new perspective a high place gave me.   I didn't have a care in the world.  My mom was in the kitchen and heard footsteps on the roof and ran outside to see her daughter on top of the house.
As you can imagine, she began to panic. At that moment when I saw her face is the first time I remember worrying.  I wasn't worried about the two story drop, I was worried because my mom clearly was. My brother helped get me down and she clung to me like I was about to fall even though I was safe on the ground.

I hadn't thought about consequences yet. But I remember hearing my mom tell the story over and over and the numerous "what if's" that accompanied those conversations. "What if she would have gone to the front of the house?" " What if I would have been too late?" What if, what if, what if." I would witness her getting more and more upset every time she told the story as if it were happening again and again.

Obviously, none of the what if's happened. I was safe. 33 years later and my mom still tells that story.  For a long time I felt ashamed.  But once I became a mom it was less about me and I realized it was more about her and her perceived failure.  That is something I can totally understand.

Since that day I have spent numerous hours worrying.  I worry about everything.  When I was young I had severe stomach problems that were undiagnosed.  Now I know it was worry turning my stomach inside out.  I worried about the safety of my family. I worried about my school work. I worried about my body.  I spent a tremendous time worrying about my outfit and even more time worrying about what other people thought of me.

Throughout college, worry was my constant companion and something I relied on. 

As a grown women I have found that my worry has left it's mark on my face for all to see. Battle wounds of prominent vertical wrinkles on my forehead. Not smile lines, worry lines.   My mom said if I made faces someday my face would freeze that way. Well it has. In a constant state of worry, I look worried even on the rare instance that I'm not. 

I worry about the same exact things I did when I was a kid. I worry about the safety of my family and about my work. I worry about the way my body looks,  I worry about my outfits and sadly, I spend an exorbitant amount of time worrying about what other people think of me.

Even the people that are closest to me. I struggle at times because I worry that my husband doesn't think I'm attractive or that the boys don't see me as a good mother.  What I'm actually feeling is my own sentiment mirrored back at me.  I don't think I'm attractive and I don't think I'm a good mother. I have told myself this long enough, that it starts to feel like a truth.

Imagine if I turned my thoughts towards the possibility that I am wrong?   I wouldn't doubt Don's admiration. (After all, he married me.)  If the love I give to my son's was reflected back to me from  their eyes,  I couldn't possibly worry.

But, when I shower them with constant worry, the same thing is reflected back. The last thing I want is for them to hesitate through life because they saw the angst on my face.  I can lead them down a path of worry, or let them take the lead and be behind them to catch them if they fall.

Worrying has gotten me to this point, which despite myself, is pretty great.   When I was little, I never did fall, my mom was there to catch me before I did.   Keeping your children safe is one thing, instilling useless fear in them so they won't try is different.

Shave and a Hair Cut, 2 t*ts

You would think that having a boy would eliminate the drama when getting their hair cut.  This is not the case. I have been through so many bad hair cuts.

The boys never ask for a hair cut.  They will be looking like sheep dogs and not ask for a hair cut.   After I cannot stand looking at them anymore I take them in.  Where I live, there are several cheap and easy places to get a hair cut.  After trying one chain we will call "Mega Clips" at every local location and having my boys walk out with inconsistent bowl cuts, I decided to make it my mission to find a new place.

Sure, we have gone to salons. But spending $75 dollars and 2 hours for four boys to get haircuts every month is not an option. I mean, my hair doesn't cover the grey (or remain blonde) on its own.  I would rather spend that money on myself.

We tried an old school barber shop.  It didn't workout well.  Granted, their hair looked ok, but it also looked the same as every other person who left the place.  I'm not asking for a complicated style, but my boys already look identical to each other, they don't need to have matching hair cuts to further confuse the public.

I decided to make a conscious effort to explore our hair cutting options by taking one boy at a time to various places.

I took my oldest son to a glorified "Mega Clips" and at first I thought things were going really well.  That was until she said " Hey mom, is this too short?" Unless I gave birth to you, please don't call me mom, and yes, it is too short but there isn't much we can do about now.. is there?

Next I took Finegan.  He has a ton of hair and was actually born with it. He also has massive eye lashes and equally massive eyebrows.  Someday he will grow into them.    My point is,  he needs a hair cut often or he will end up looking like cousin It.  He chose a male themed hair cut place we will call "Ball Clips".  The parking lot was packed.  I had never seen so many cars outside a hair cut place. The moment we walked in I wasn't sure if we were in a sports bar or a barber.  There were stadium seats facing a huge television. Behind that, more televisions and more sports stuff.

He loved it. I didn't.

I put our name in and there was a 30 minute wait. I typically wouldn't wait that long, but Fin really needed a hair cut and "Ball Cuts" must be legit if this many people were willing to wait.  When we sat down I became acutely aware that I was surrounded by men.   The hairdressers were all young women and dressed in tight referee outfits. Now, I am familiar with actual female referee attire and I will say that these were not accurate representations of that.
Not only were all the men middle aged,  apparently they were all named  "Honey" "Hon" and "Sweetie".

A few years ago Hooters closed in our town. If you ever wanted to know if those waitresses found other jobs, rest assured, they did.

When our name was finally called, the women asked his age. Nine he said. She then then proceeded to ask him if he would like the deluxe package which includes a head massage, or a super deluxe package that would include and a warm face towel.

Again he is NINE. He said yes, I said no apparently with a look on my face that said WTF?   Then she confessed it was her first day, she came from... you guessed it, " Mega Clips".  Good lord! Why have you forsaken me?

I decided to stay with him while he got his hair cut giving her very specific instructions that I knew she would not follow.  While sitting there I got a glimpse into why "Ball Cuts" was so popular, and it wasnt the hair cuts.

I overheard a conversations where the hairdresser expressed how much she missed her client. And he expressed that he was just in for a free "touch up".  But letting her know he was going to leave a big tip.

If these girls were actual Hooters waitresses previously, then they must have broken a lot of plates because the amount of times they dropped something in front of the chair only to bend over to pick it up was alarming.  That explains the big tips.

A sad looking man walked in.  Sad because his wife decided to walk back with him when he got shampooed. She probably wondered why her husband was getting his hair cut so often and decided to investigate.

Next, a few teenage boys came in and asked how long the wait was. By now it was 40 minutes.  No problem! They were willing to wait.

I felt out of place. I hadn't noticed that there were no other children present. The hairdressers were probably looking at me like I was a horrible mom to subject her son to barber shop grade lap dances. I was ruining their mojo.  By the time I glanced back to my son he had convinced her to give him a butt cut. A 1984 legitimate butt cut.  I didn't care. I just wanted to get out before my son became a man right before my eyes.   

I have been a cocktail waitress, I understand flirting for a big tip.  But back then I was dealing with intoxicated individuals.  I guess with the omission of alcohol one may resort to flattery.  But what I do not, cannot and will not ever understand how these men can't see right through it?  If someone tells you that you have a strong head of hair and your hairline has recited back to 1971, chances are they are pulling your chain. Which to be honest, I'm not confident that there isn't a little chain pulling going on if you know what I mean.

There was a dimly lit back room where the head massaging took place,  where I'm sure that more (Ego) stoking goes on.

When we returned home Don asked how it went. I said he should never ever go there, it wasn't worth our $17. 

By the time we left, that simplicity of an old school barber shop was looking more an more revolutionary. Where you got what you paid for,  a shave and a hair cut, for only two bits.

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.