What Picture Day Really Looks Like

Judging by my school photos, my mom let me wear whatever I wanted and style my own hair.  I have hidden most of the photos.  However the yearbooks are still circulating. It makes me ill to think that at least 200 copies were issued for each school year, meaning that from K-8 there are 1800 awful photo proof of me out there.

It is a good thing I am not famous because the rumor mill would have been running had most of my elementary photos leaked.  It is safe to say that I looked like a butch lesbian. In one way, it is refreshing that my parents accepted that I may be part of the LGBTQ community at a very young age.  The problem is, that I wasn't and now I have to look at photos of myself with a mullet.  One of which had a spike on top.  Along with one of my brother's hand-me-down polo shirts with pit stains and a gold chain. Add to the fact that I already looked like a boy and I can see why I'm listed with only my first initial, N. in my second grade photo. The poor yearbook distributer didn't know what to think.

Bad school photos run in our family. In one of my husband's elementary photos he is wearing a party hat and has a fruit punch mustache. I KID YOU NOT.  Apparently he wanted to wear it and the photographer didn't notice. Why the teacher allowed a birthday celebration before pictures is beyond me. However, it was the 70's and they pretty much did whatever they wanted. In the 80's my husband looks like every facial feature is swollen.  Including his eyes, which were shut most of the time.

So you can imagine that I take picture day for my own boys very seriously.  I start thinking about their outfits weeks in advance.  You see, those photos are going to be on my mantel for the next year and if I have too look at them, I am going to make them aesthetically pleasing.

Our school hires a really great photographer. Gone are the days where you chose your neon background, or you place your hands on an artificial log as the fluorescent light dances off the over active oil glands on your forehead.  Their photos are done in natural light next to wild flowers.  So that is one thing we have going for us.   And the fact that they are all pretty cute.  Although, I have never heard of a parent describing their child as ugly… (and we all know there are some ugly kids out there).

I can appreciate that my mom let me wear whatever the hell I wanted but that is a luxury my boys don't have.  I lay out their picture outfit and they put it on.  It was a little chilly, so I insisted on layers. Plus, I like that kind of collegiate, professor look.  Who knows,  by the time they apply to college the school may require elementary photos in addition to blood samples. Besides, anything you put on the internet stays there, and if those photos come out decent, you better believe I will post them on Facebook, because nothing gives a mom parental street cred more, than your child looking perfect.

Perfection is all about smoke in mirrors after all, and to achieve it requires a lot of hard work.
This morning I woke up early because I knew I had to put my game face on for this battle.  Naturally, the boys all woke up with varying degrees of bed head.  Except my oldest who had taken a shower last night and then wore headphones while his hair was wet making it appear that he is wearing an enormous invisible headband.

They all have about 1000 cowlicks too.  Each of them having a lollipop shaped one right at the back of their head creating a spiral of Alfalfa looking hairs.

When my seven year old came downstairs he is wearing the layers in all the wrong order. The sweater was under the button-down shirt and he has put his older brother's pants on. Which means, his older brother came down wearing his younger brother's pants.  Not even stopping to notice they are 4 inches too short.  I almost let it go since the bottom half of the boys is not pictured, but for practical reasons I made them trade.  My oldest son is fully capable of dressing himself, but apparently not feeding himself.  Thankfully his sweater caught the yogurt that missed his mouth, but he is left with only one layer which threw off my entire collegiate theme and now he has a slight farmer appearance.

I took each of them into the bathroom where I turned the blowdryer on high and hairsprayed their hair straight up in the front. A little I trick I learned in 1987 when the higher your bangs meant the higher your self worth. Also, the boys hair falls flat in a matter of an hour so if the photos are taken in the morning their hair should be pretty perfect.

Toothpaste is also a threat so I instructed them to be careful.  To my knowledge there were no toothpaste incidents, but that would only be true if they actually brushed their teeth, which I cannot be 100% certain.

Somehow we were out the door with a few minutes to spare to capture this photo.  Although, their smiles are plastic, they are being forced to stand next to each other,  and they are fighting under their breath,  I'm proud of these little guys.

What I'm not so proud of is my short temper to get them this way. Hopefully, that memory will fade away, but the year books, those things never will.

The 25th Lunch of the week

Today marks the last day of the first week of school!

Obviously someone was excited by this. 

I have heard that moving and the death of a family member rank high on the list of life's most stressful situations, but somebody forgot this one.  We lived the life of a Jimmy Buffett song all summer.    They didn't wear shirts or shoes. Stayed up late playing outside, slept in, had cheeseburgers, margaritas (well I did), and if you look at a list of Jimmy Buffett songs, all the other stuff too.

Although we knew this day was coming for 2 months, it came as a shock to all of us. If I thought trying to put shoes on feet which hadn't worn them all summer was tough,  what was even worse was waking the boys up before 7. At one point I had to check if they were breathing because they would not move.

The first day was filled with excitement. The second day, not so much.  The third day someone puked.  Don't get me wrong, they actually like going to school, but they just don't like the act of getting there.

Several mothers celebrate the return of school. The kids are finally out of the house, but for me it is more work.  After coming home from work, I don't sit down until the last kid kisses me goodnight. But honestly it shouldn't be a goodnight kiss, it should be a see you later kiss because it is only a matter of hours before I see my four year old at the end of our bed.

The boys teachers must have major confidence in my ability because two of them required me to bring snack on the first week of class on the same day.  That was a lot of mini muffins.

One of the tasks that takes up so much of my "spare" time is making lunches.  At first I thought this would be a fun. Using Pinterest as my muse I was ready to shock and amaze.  I consider myself somewhat of a health nut, but by the end of the year I would have no problem sticking a hot pocket in their backpack if I could.   I admire the school having strict dietary guidelines in theory, but sometimes nothing would make me happier than a bag of Doritos. And if you know me, baking and cooking are not things I excel at.  They have made for some pretty funny fail photos however.

I have reusable lunch containers with four compartments and those compartments mock me. Challenge me to fill them up with nutritious food. And after a long day, I can't remember which kid is repulsed by string cheese. Or if any of the food in the compartments intermingle, they are tainted and considered uneatable.

Lunches are like a complex math problem of making different combinations for food each day without repeating one.  It's mentally exhausting.   Our school does have a hot lunch program but if I were to get hot lunch for every child everyday I might as well just hand over my salary.

I also make lunch for my husband.  It is the same lunch I make the boys. Some people may think that is unnecessary, but to me its not. It is the one way I can show him that I love him and care about him when I have forgotten to look at him all week. And, it is great ammunition when I need to one up him in an argument.  For example: "Who makes MY lunch everyday?"   Plus, if I didn't pack his lunch he wouldn't eat.  Then he would come home hungry and be an asshole, so its a win win situation.

As much as I hate it, making the boys lunch each day is a way for me to be part of their day when I can't be.  I have been their source of food since they were born and some how I still feel obligated to keep up with it. And even though I have opened the lunch in the evening to find the very lunch I took such care to make went untouched because I forgot somebody didn't like mustard that week, doesn't discourage me from doing it all over again the next day. Even though the boys don't notice, it is an extension of my love for them.

After a few complaints from the customers about my lunch packing abilities, last year I let Parker pack his own lunch .  It consisted of  pita chips, corn chips and sweet potato chips. That was obviously not acceptable even though it was delicious.

Plus, if I didn't make their lunch what would I have to complain about everyday?  I posted something on Facebook about how I only had a million more lunches to make before they graduated from high school. Then a friend commented how I'm already over half way there. Leave it to a guy to think that way.

When I read it, it hit me.  In less that a decade 2 of my boys will be in college. They will eat dining hall lunches that will be so much better than what I make, and they will love it and forget all the lunches I made for them.  They won't miss them, but I bet I will.

The every mundane tasks are what I'm going to miss most.

So, the next time I am rolling another tortilla into a turkey and cheese wrap, I will remember that this is only temporary.  A decade flew by and now my babies are boys and in a blink of an eye they will be men.  Well fed men at that.

So in order to keep our Jimmy Buffett summer lingering just a bit longer I will quote one of his songs, because even Jimmy had to go back to work.  It's all the way you look at it.

It's those changes in latitudes,

changes in attitudes nothing remains quite the same.

With all of our running and all of our cunning,

If we couldn't  laugh we would all go insane.

Walking the Dog

My second son is very…. well, unique.  First, he is really really smart, proving that intelligence can skip a generation.  He devours information and his appetite for knowledge is never quite satisfied.  I'm not saying that his father and I are stupid, but our interests are the opposite of anything remarkable.

Finegan has a mature book intelligence but his emotional intelligence is still developing. (Actually, so is mine).  In the past year, he has read too many books to count, learned to play the ocarina…yes ocarina, the violin, and composed several pieces on the piano. He likes Minecraft, magic and origami.  Not exactly your triple threat. Plus I have noticed that he is introverted.  We have tried to force him to get outside and play, but he always comes back defeated and sad because kids call him weird.   The truth is, he is weird. Wonderfully so. 
I told him that when I was a kid people called me weird all the time. His response was, well you are weird. And we laughed and I got up and did a jig, proving that weirdness doesn't wear off and he is pretty much screwed if he was hoping it did.

Even if you embrace your weirdness, it can leave you filling left out, and sad at times.  I have learned to channel my weirdness into humor and creativity.  Yet, to a nine year old, it feels terrible. As a mom to the nine-year-old it feels even worse.

You want your kid to fit in, yet when they get older you want them to stand out.

I toyed around with the thought that maybe it is okay he is an introvert. After all, he is happy when he is in his room discovering something new.  To what standard am I measuring happiness? Mine or his?

I have been walking our dog a lot lately.  Actually, he has been walking me.  This dog is stronger than a spastic horse. To get Fin out of the house I have asked him to come along. Most of the time he does willingly, the other times by force.  Once we catch our stride we have had some amazing conversations.  I feel that I can talk to him like an adult, until he reminds me he is a kid again.  He is inquisitive and I would be doing him a disservice if I wasn't honest with him. He told me he was going to build a time machine so after I am gone, he can still go on "our" walks.  I told him that he needs to secretly tell me the winning lottery numbers.  Sometimes our conversations take an unexpected hairpin turn. 

He asked how Robin Williams died.  I hesitated a bit and told him that he had committed suicide.  Some how he already knew what that was.  He asked how he did it. At that time I wasn't sure, but I told Fin that it didn't matter, the end result was the same.  Of course he asked why.  I explained that nobody will ever know for sure. He said, "maybe it was because he felt left out."

This kind of hit me like a ton of bricks.  Was he empathetically implying that feeling left out would be a good enough reason to kill oneself? It worried me.   I explained that he suffered from depression.  We continued our walk and he asked me what it felt like to be depressed.  In addition to being weird, I also have had to deal with reoccurring depression and as much as I have tried to leave the boys in the dark about this, they have seen it first hand.  I wasn't trying to hide it but I didn't want them to feel they were at fault. No amount of love or laughter can get you out of it.  That is why it sucks so much.

He said that he is going to find a cure for depression and then come back in time and give it to Robin Williams and me.  And as much as I admire him for doing that, and I'm confident he will,  I don't know if I would take it. Its one thing to manage it, but to just delete it?  What we perceive as wrong, may be what is right for us. Trust me, I have been to the dark abyss but the lightness that came out of it was beautiful.  I don't like it when I'm in it, but as a creative type, I respect it, I appreciate it, and after all these years, I have learned to cope with it.  Honestly, I don't know who I would be without it. 

It is what makes me unique.  And it has gotten me to this very moment where I'm walking with my son.   I made sure to let him know that just because someone has been diagnosed with depression it doesn't mean they are going to kill themselves. It is not black and white. And I assured him that I would never leave this Earth by my own accord. 

I explained that I can't judge someone who has taken their own life, and I don't want my children to either.  But if we are going to love this life, we have to travel through a couple hills and valleys.  And put more focus on others and less on ourselves. Life is about service, and on that path there will be a dip or climb. True love is supporting each other in the good choices and bad. 

I intend to walk together as long as we can.  To make him know that he is not alone, even when he prefers to be.

Keyhole Vision

We live in a very old house.  It still has the original doors. The kind of doors that don't shut correctly. Don said it is something about the temperature and the humidity bla bla bla.  All I know is that our doors don't shut.  They also don't lock.  Apparently in 1931 kids had enough sense to not just walk into the bathroom when someone was in there.  What is weird is that there are key holes.

This gives me the impression that they either used them to keep people out of the room, or in it. Either way it's kind of creepy.  I suppose some day we will get new doors, but Don is adamant about keeping the original ones.  The doorknobs are beautiful glass. When they aren't sticky, they are quite

stunning.  The people building the house didn't splurge on much, but by God they were going to have nice doorknobs.  They were on to something because 70 years after it was built a young couple fell in love with the house and focused so much on the doorknobs that they didn't notice the parts of the house that were falling apart around them.

The house has been a lot of work.  For 13 years we have been trying to get the place as we want it or need it, but by the time one project is finished another one emerges out of nowhere.  We grumble and stress but it is worth it to us to maintain it's original integrity and respect the intention of the house and the person who built it and choose the glass doorknobs.  It's easy to find the faults, but it is the small details that make it lovable.

Don was gone for six weeks for work. That is a lot of home projects he missed. I kept the house standing, but I missed him.  Yet, he has been back for about a week and I don't think he knows it.

I have a tendency to look at him with keyhole vision.  I focus on one thing, possibly two that he is doing wrong.  And because I can only have a narrow view, I can't focus on what he is doing right.

Yesterday I made this very clear.   When I met Don one of the things I adored about him was his laid back, easy going personality.  These traits were his glass doorknobs.  Not implying that he was falling apart everywhere else or anything.  But what didn't occur to me was that when we got married, he was still going to be the easy going, laid back person, but now my husband.   And these same traits I loved are what drive me cah-ray-zy.

Yesterday, we drove to Chicago and didn't leave as early as I wanted to because as I was loading everyone into the car I heard the blender.  He decided that this was a good time to make a fresh fruit smoothie. This includes cutting, cleaning, and blending fruit.  It's not a (let me grab a drink and go) type of thing. It's a 10 step process.   In addition to that, he decided to purchase an i-zoom pass but not register it.  We both know it's time we stop borrowing my parents pass, but who knew it took 3 hours to register a new one before you could use it? Well…...I did.  Which led to us searching the house (piggy banks) for change for the tolls. Again, not the thing you want to do when you have four boys waiting unattended in the car and now you are hearing screams because someone has spit in someone's ear.

You get the idea. I admit,  I'm not the world's most organized person, but I had packed a lunch for each of the boys including Don, and gotten them dressed and out the door faster than it was taking him to make this damn smoothie.  The first hour of the trip (it takes two) I let him (and the entire car) know how unhappy I was. At one point I even got tired of hearing myself complain but because I wasn't getting any sort of reaction I just kept talking.

By the time we arrived  I had managed to make us all in a bad mood.   When we entered the Shedd Aquarium Don took us up to a different door.  He had planned on purchasing a membership so we could go the entire year.  He had been searching for the email before we left and that is what was taking so long.  When we sat down for lunch, I realized I hadn't packed one for myself, he pulled out the smoothie he had made me.   I was so focused on what he was doing wrong that I couldn't see what he was doing right. Just like the house, its the little things that make a man lovable.


I was mad that I had to figure this out myself and felt like a complete ass, but that is where his laid back attitude is a blessing.  However, the i-zoom pass was still his fault.

It isn't just about him. If I focus on what goes wrong in the day like, my son almost falling into a stingray exhibit, I prevent the chance of seeing what went right . Like, the above picture that captured the tender moment when I was walking with Jack, so engrossed in conversation I didn't know it was taken.  Who knows if I would have even been able to focus on that moment if I hadn't seen the picture?

The person who took it wasn't viewing me with keyhole vision and it shows.

It is impossible to get an accurate impression of entire room if you are only looking through a keyhole. But when you open the door you can see it all.

It all depends on what you choose to look for. If you can find all that is wrong, chances are you can expand your view and find double what is right.

Thoughts in the wind

A year ago today we had to put our chocolate lab to sleep.   The memory of the days leading up to this are as vivid to me now as they were then.  The hardest part about it was watching each of my four sons say goodbye.  Each farewell was unique.  I wrote about it here.  My husband was out of town and I was left to take Graham myself.  As horrible as it sounds, I enjoyed the last moments I had with him.  It was just like the good old days.  As we drove to his favorite park for the last time it was reminiscent of 14 years ago when he and I would make our daily trips down the PCH to the dog park in Santa Monica.  I wasn't married then and he was my co-pilot. He was the one I confided in.

In the days leading up to his death we spoiled him like only four boys could.  A lot of hugs, a lot of mouth kisses and several cookies, pizza and ice cream.   But after a few weeks the boys stopped praying for him at dinner, stopped talking about him.  I thought they had forgotten him.  Except when February 23 came around they all knew it was his birthday and we had chocolate cake.  We always had it on his birthday which is extremely selfish of us because obviously he couldn't have any.

Today Finegan asked if we could release balloons.  We have never released balloons (intentionally.)  We went to the grocery store and got four brown balloons.  The clerk asked what the special occasion was,  Parker responded "our dog died" without any hesitation.

We drove to Graham's favorite dog park and stood in the middle. I gave each of the boys a balloon.  For a moment they were not fighting, not yelling, not wrestling. They were standing there holding a balloon.  They decided to whisper things into the balloon and release it to Graham. It was the only way they felt he could hear their voice.   I was expecting this balloon release to last 2 minutes, tops, but it was edging on 10.  They were all whispering their thoughts to their deceased dog via balloon.

Runners and bicyclist passed by. Surely thinking I had some nut job parenting skills seeing four kids talking to balloons. After awhile I asked if they were ready.  All said yes except for Jack.   He finished his monologue by saying he was sorry he yelled at him that one time when he ate all of his crayons and pooped them all out in the middle of his room.

Finally on the count of 3 they released their thoughts in the wind.  We watched the brown balloons which were a dark contrast to the blue sky fade away until we could no longer see them.  They stayed relatively close together.  I found myself getting really emotional.   Not because the loss of my pet, but the simplicity of it all.

The world right now is not in a good place.  Planes being shot down, wars, conflict, the killing of innocent  children.  Children who, I would guess would also see nothing odd about whispering thoughts into a balloon to send their deceased dog well wishes.

When we left they were happy.  I regretted not sending a balloon off myself.  If only I could get the flurry of thoughts in my head, especially the bad ones, the ones that question everything, that doubt the direction of humanity into a balloon and release it to the Universe to handle it and take it off my hands.

After I learned the news of the Malaysian flight all I could think about was how I could bring children into a world like this.  How can I keep them safe from the evil that leaves no child off limits?  I can't.  And I can't expect anyone but myself to.  I can keep them from crossing the street in front of a car, from eating worms in the back yard but I can't keep them from evil people who have a great way of looking normal. They have to learn to protect themselves.

All I can do is bombard them with all that is right. Let them have moments of stillness to reflect on what is good.  In this case, it was our pet.  Graham was as good as it gets. Loyal, loving, a good listener, forgiving,  a protector and a fantastic companion. Even though we go to church, God is still a concept to them that is hard to grasp, and I'm including myself in this struggle.  I'm trying to show them tangible way to see  glimpse into what is great in God's creation, and to teach them love, forgiveness, loyalty, empathy, compassion and advocacy of what is good.

I can also release any thoughts of doubt I have to the wind because standing in front of me is four little ambassadors of the hope for the future.  Another example that something as simple as having a pet can show you what it is like to love unconditionally, despite differences or when they make poor choices and eat your favorite toy or take a preverbal dump on all that seems good.

For the Love of God...

I have become desperate. Very desperate.  I have been alone with my children for 17 days. I noticed my desperation after the third day, but I tried to justify my panic with the fact that I was just in the Genesis stage of the summer and eventually we would all settle in.  My husband comes back in a few more weeks and I hope by then to have some order to the chaos.
I am a strong believer in a woman's capabilities, but it is not natural for a woman to be left alone in a house of boys, a dog and the classroom pet who is a lizard.  Did I mention I don't like reptiles?  Well it doesn't matter because my husband left me alone with it after no other parent volunteered to be the host family for the summer.  Do you know what lizards eat? Live crickets.  Did I mention I don't like bugs?
So I have 6 mouths to feed not including my own. Which doesn't matter these days because the only thing I have been eating is whatever is left over from what the boys don't eat because I am too exhausted to make myself something.
My children are not old enough to be left alone. And even if they were I can't say I would.   They like to screw around. Last week we left to go to the store to buy one item, dishwasher detergent. Since we are eating at home for every meal included all the in-between meals we (I) have been running the dishwasher about 400 times a day.   Of course when we left the store we had dishwasher detergent, 3 boxes of sugar disguised as cereal and a box of doughnuts.  All of which will make an appearance on my butt by the end of summer because they grow tired of the same cereal after awhile and I find myself eating it alone while watching Orange is the New Black.  When we returned home someone (nobody has come forward yet) had left a fake lizard sitting on top of the real lizard's aquarium.
Whether is was a sick joke, or an accident, I think the fear was reflected back on them tenfold when they saw their mother screaming and running from the mudroom.  I panicked because I briefly thought I was never going to be able to sleep because I would have to have one eye open in case it crawled up on my bed.
After realizing it was fake, it didn't make me feel any better because the one thing I forgot was that I had drank my all the wine the previous night, and there was no way in hell I was taking them all back to the store to get a bottle of wine.   I considered mixing vodka with milk (our only other beverage because I forgot to get OJ) but even I know that is too gross, but if the lizard had gotten out I can't say I wouldn't have done it.
The truth is, I haven't slept.  Maybe that is my problem. Everyone is nervous that someone is going to break into our house, despite having a fantastic alarm system. Which is useless if the power is out, but that would only happen if their was a tornado or something.  Oh, that's right there was.  Since my husband left I feel that I am being faced with the ten plagues of Eygpt.  Bugs, Frogs (lizards) darkness, thunder…. I pray the list doesn't continue.

My girlfriend visited and as much as she helped, I think I saw her do a Charlie Chaplin kick when she left.  I know my boys can be a little "intense".  I will say that by the end of her visit she had become a pro in tuning out the never-ending looped remix of "mommy, mama, mom, mommy, ma," Ja ja jammin' on the one.  (In case you  don't know, that lyric is it one of the great ones from Theo Huxtable) and in case you were looking for an example of my sleep deprivation, there you go, a random 80's reference.

In an effort to keep them occupied I decided to take all of us (except the lizard) to a dog park.  I haven't been able to walk Wally regularly and I was worried he was getting depressed… or maybe that is me, either way, we needed to get out.    The park is 3 minutes away but we have to go through a rough area in order to get there.  As we were driving Finegan screamed " Wally is pooping! He is pooping! Pull over!" I thought he was probably over reacting because Wally's butt was directly in front of his face but when I turned around Wally was hunched over ready to drop a bomb.  I immediately pulled over, jumped out of the car and let him out to poop in the grass.  When I looked up, I realized I was in front of a house which appeared to have an entire neighborhood sitting on their porch.
I wasn't sure if they were looking at me because I was only wearing a beach cover-up which was not doing it's job of covering up, or if it was because my dog was walking around in the poop position because he had a continuous stream of poop coming out of his butt.  He poops when he gets excited.   I'm pretty sure they were not happy about it, but I had come prepared with plastic bags for this very reason. Albeit, I didn't think it would happen so soon. But when I turned to grab a bag, my son's had rolled the windows up and locked the doors.
This really conveys the notion to the neighbors that my kids are afraid of them and what might happen next, and that they believe in me enough to be able to handle it myself.

I was able to convince Parker to roll down the window enough to give me a plastic bag and I picked up soft serve the best I could off their front lawn.  This too was a wonderful spectacle because again, my cover up, was not doing its job, now on the back side.
Even though there was a trash can right next to me, I put the bag of poop in the car with me and we drove to the park with the pleasant stench of humiliation and fresh dog dung.
Once we were at the park I set them all free to run like the wind and hopefully tire them out so I could go home and return to watching Orange is the New Black. In case you don't know, the show is about a woman's prison. And to be honest, at this point I would be willing to trade my freedom for a brief solace from crap both metaphorically and literally.

I'm going to try and appreciate the notion that I have got this.  I am going to try and ignore the fact that it doesn't look like it. Or that my husband is texting pictures of his "work" trip to us which includes time with his old high school buddies and NYC.  With every text he sends with a photo of something like the Statue of Liberty or a beer, I respond with a photo of whatever is in my view at that very moment. Sometimes it is a burnt pancake.  Other times it is an angry child who is mad that I can't find the hair to go with his stupid lego figure. Or a photo of a rash.  Just to bring him back to reality of what is waiting for him when he gets home.

We have been talking about God a lot lately. Mostly because when ever I say it, for example "For the love of God, will you please stop fighting!" I feel the need to actually consider the love of God.  And open the discussion. Today I distracted the boys after I flipped out by asking them what they think Heaven looks like. Oscar said it looks like the sky with fire ants and rolley-polleys and legos, all of which happen to be his favorite things.  Jack said it has fluffy clouds, with Uncle Butch, Graham (our departed dog) and Bill Bixby.  We have been blessed to have very few close family members die, but Jack took it pretty hard  when he learned that his favorite character on the 1970's sitcom The Incredible Hulk was dead.

It reminds me that without God, I surely would not be able to have made it this far. An entire 17 days. And if I were to answer this question of Heaven I would also list all the things I love. Which happen to be with me 24 hours a day and I didn't have to die to experience it.  I not only have got this.. I get it too.

All I ask of him, is that if this is a test, to please please grade me on a curve…. and possibly change my water to wine, just once.

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.