Posts from the Playground

Do you really want to?

2008-09-19T06:38:00.000-07:00

This morning there was a lot of chaos under this roof. There is always some chaos, but today there was an above average amount.

It was a no dress code day for my three grade schoolers, though my husband dressed them all in uniforms. When I came down the steps, they were crying and gnashing their teeth, and pleading with me to help.

I didn't know it was a no dress code day, my husband responded to the question, why are they in their uniforms?

The bus will be here any minute. There is no time for them to change.

I'll change them and take them to school today.

Do you really want to? he asks.

The teenager is not ready. She doesn't feel good and her pants are too long. Consequently, she is not ready to leave with her father.

Do you want to take her to school too?

On the way to school, she is crying, I'm going to be late, while Ethan speaks up from the back seat...

I forgot my library book, again. I promised I would bring it back today. I have to go home and get it.

We arrive at high school.

I'll call you when I'm done.

Oh, except I forgot my phone.

You don't mind if I take yours, do you?

We drop the little kids off in the car line and the vice principal wants to know why Ethan is getting out of the car?

Aren't you coming to school today she asks?

The library book story is recounted.

She assures him he can bring it on Monday, but he won't get out of the car.

My mom is going to take me home to get it.

She looks at me and asks, do you really want to?

As we make our second trip back to school, I contemplate all the times I have been asked the question DO I REALLY WANT TO? in the relatively short amount of time since I have been conscious. Each time, it was asked, I didn't really answer. I took it as more of hypothetical, thinking each time, do I really have choice?

When Ethan got out of the car, book in hand, obviously relieved that he wasn't going to have to avoid the librarian all day as his older sister suggested, I realized that the question wasn't a hypothetical. I could have let them go to school in their uniforms; could have made my husband drive daughter to school and get to work late; could have insisted that Ethan get out of the car the first time I drove school...

So I guess the answer is yes, I really do want to. Not that I enjoy necessarily driving around like a limo driver, picking up others slack, surrendering my cell phone at moments notice...it's not about the particulars. What I really want to do is help my family, and if something as simple second trip back home to get a forgotten book can make my son's day better, then yes, I really want to. If only all the worlds problems could be solved so easily.

The Evidence

2008-09-17T19:54:00.005-07:00

We did get into Martha's kitchen...

But you know what, I think I might like mine better. It's not as pretty, and it probably doesn't produce as good of food, but it's comfortable...

Truly, I am an idiot. What more can I say. You gotta take the good with the bad. Most times, I think the bad outweighs, but you'll have to be the judge

The Day is over, I'm smiling, and going to bed!!!!!!!!!

If you or kids haven't read this book,
go out and get it now. Just make sure
you get gas FIRST.

Read below. Then look here. Don't ask why. It's been a terrible horrible no good very bad day, It's 11:56 P.M., and for the first time in months, couldn't publish these pics below? When will it ever end. Hopefully 12:01a.m.? But who knows?

Laurie (ofthesevenstories) and the terrible horrible no good very bad day

2008-09-17T19:54:00.003-07:00

Um, yeah... remember Alexander?

I do, as it was one of my favorite stories to read as a child. I think I probably liked hearing, like all kids do, that once in a while, everybody really has a terrible horrible no good very bad day...

Back then, like Alexander, I thought not getting the right color stripes on my sneakers was like a serious wrong. Not to minimize Alexander's tale. The message is universal. Sometimes a bad day is just bad,and there is nothing you can do to stop it. As a child, this is particularly true, because after all, you are in not control. You have to rely on the will of others. And sometimes things just snowball, and a day seems to go haywire and out of control...

Unlike Alexander, I didn't wake up with gum in my hair, but I did wake up like super,super early this am. Like we're talking 1:40; 2:40; 3:40, and omigod, it's time to get ready. I had showered the night before. I laidout my clothes. I packed my camera;etc. in my purse, so I'd be ready to go.

The GPS was loaded, and I was headed to meet fellow local blogger, Sarah, of Genisis Moments so that we could meet Beth, of Total Mom Haircut to attend the Martha Stewart Show in NYC to see her special on bloggers. From 3:40 on, I scampered and scurried as fast as I could to get to Sarah to pick her up so that we could head to NYC via the Trenton Train Station.

I got to Sarah's house at about quarter after five. She questioned whether we would make the train? I assured her that we would, thinking that absolutely that would be the case...

We were running two to three minutes behind the train we planned to take, but there were at least three or four others that would have been later, but still would have enabled us to get to the show. I drove fast. I followed the GPS. When the gas light came on, I figured, oh I've got time. How many times have I figured this and been fine? Oh, probably 6512498543215455 billion times, and I'm always fine.

Today, apparently, the 6512498543215456 billionth time, NOT.SO.MUCH.

That's right folks, one mile from the train station, WE.RAN.OUT.OF.GAS.

Sarah was upset, and rightfully so. She told me that she wished I would have stopped for gas the night before... What could I say except, "I'm sorry." Often and repeatedly.

I called AAA, and figured that they would be there quickly. I called Sarah a cab and thought she could go without me.

It took AAA 11/2 hours to find us. As it turned we literally were seconds from New Jersey, but technically in PA. As a result, the initial tow truck, coming with gas, turned around, stating that they didn't come to PA. Thanks so much for your help AAA. I'll definitely be renewing next year!

The cab, I called for Sarah, also never came. I don't even know why.

We called 911 New Jersey- but we were in PA; they told us to call the turnpike hotline- but we weren't on the turnpike- finally someone put me through to the police in PA.

90 minutes later, with absolutely no hope of getting Sarah to the show, the police and AAA arrived and we were back in business. I got gas, and we decided to make a day of it and head into NYC anyway to meet Beth, who did actually wind up making it to the show.

The consellation prize(?) was that we did get to see an afternoon taping of Martha's show, though it was not on the topic of blogging. It was about figs. I like figs enough, but, of course, it wasn't the same; and I was unable to shake the terrible, horrible, very bad feeling that came as a result of my having such a day when others were involved and affected by my day. And I was powerless to fix things, really fix things....

But alas, as it was for Alexander, and Scarlet O'hara, it will be for me. Tommorow brings a new day, a fresh start, an opportunity to try again.

Laurie (ofthesevenstories) and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

2008-09-17T19:54:00.002-07:00

Laurie (ofthesevenstories) and the TERRIBLE HORRIBLE NO GOOD VERY BAD DAY

2008-09-17T19:54:00.001-07:00

Fessing up...

2008-09-14T19:20:00.001-07:00

All of the "ist" groups that I could be associated with, I' m proud to say that I would consider myself to be a member of only one. Mostly this is a good thing, as there aren't too many ists groups that come to my mind that have positive values. For example, I do not subscribe to the points of view of the following:
*racists
*sexists
*antagonists, well, this one may be debatable
*realists, in my opinion, this is not such a good group, at least for me.
*idealists; I used to be one, but then I grew up, as most of the members of this ist do
*apologists; I only rarely say I'm sorry, as I'm hardly ever wrong

Of course, there are some good "ist" groups, too. Sadly, I do not belong to those either.

I'd love to be a philanthropist, but I just don't have the money.
Once, in college, I thought for a while about being anthropologist, but then there was all that digging.
Also thought of being a sociologist; but they don't make any money. Good thing I decided to major in philosophy.
I have seen some psychologists and some psychiatrists. I'm not sure that they are good "ists". They sort of waiver between the two groups; hanging in the balance, in my mind. No, on second thought, psychologists are in the bad ists group cause all they can do is talk; and bill you 200. an hour. I talk and no pays me. Psychiatrists, on the other hand, are in the good ist group, as they can prescribe medication. Note, I am also not a scientologist. Sorry Tom Cruise. I liked you in Jerry Maguire, but not nearly as much as I like xanax.

There are two ists groups to which I think I do belong;

I think I am a feminist, although others may disagree. My husband often tells me that I am not. I reply, "well who is doing the dishes?" right before I put his laundry away.

The ist that I know I am, however, is a bad ist. I wish I weren't. I wish somehow I could take it back, erase it from my mind, separate the part of my brain that clings to the fact that I hate getting old; and thus I am an AGEIST. There, I said it. I don't feel better.

You see, today, I turn thirty four. 34. I am leaving my early thirties and entering my mid thirties. It is not place that I want to go. I am not happy here. I don't like the idea of wrinkle cream or doctor's visits to check and see if I have any of the 200+billion diseases that old people get. I don't like the idea of not being hip; or being untrustworthy; or having to grow up and be responsible. I like being the younger generation, the kid, the young one. Maybe its because I am the baby of the family. I don't know.

For the past several weeks, in anticipation of this day, I have been trying to mentally prepare myself. Mostly at night, I would have talks with myself, not out loud, I'm NOT that old YET. I would try to soothe myself.

If I live until age 90(ha!), I'm a good ten years from middle age. Not such a soothing thought. Next.

Thirty four is still relatively young. I am young. I have six years until I am forty. A little better, but still depressing.

Really young looking people are forty and older. Look at Brad Pitt. Oh yeah, he's a man and a Hollywood actor. Does not apply to me.

That vice presidential candidate chick is 42; a real person; and she has five kids. Maybe there is hope for me.

I saw on the news this morning that a new type of exercise is sweeping the older generation. Cane fu. Avg age range, 60. I'm not even close to that age; so I' m REALLY not that OLD.

Forty is supposed to be the new twenty; so in all actuality, I'm only turning fourteen today.

You know what, on my thirty fourth birthday, I actually want to be labeled a teenage mom. All of the sudden, it feels good. With age does come wisdom. So maybe instead of being depressed I should look forward to turning forty, I mean twenty.

Maybe in six years. Right now, I' m still trying to accept fourteen.

Keith, calm down...

2008-09-11T12:26:00.000-07:00

My brother has a theory that there has never been any one by the name of Keith who is truly a success in this world. When he first mentioned this to me, I responded with, "well Keith Olbermann is successful, kind of, in his field."

"No, he's not," my brother replied, in a matter-of-fact tone. If their is one thing that my brother is, it's self-assured. Unlike me, he does not ever feel the need to justify, quantify, rationalize and explain everything he says so that everyone he says it to will understand and agree. I admire this about him; it can be pretty freaking annoying, but at least you know when he commits himself to something, he means it.

This is why when we had this conversation, and initially I didn't understand fully his assessment of Keith Olbermann, I didn't really inquire any further. Doing so would have gotten me no where, and because my brother and I are subscribe to different political ideologies, I thought "what the hell is the point?"

I am a registered Democrat.

I never really watched Keith Olbermann. I mean I knew who he was; I have listened to his commentaries when he is on a panel, but I never really more than glanced at his show, until last night.

Boy, am I glad that I didn't get into a raging debate with my brother over this guy. He is absolutely nuts.

It was sometime after 10 o'clock when alas, my head was able to hit my pillow, and I thought to myself, I think I might like to watch a little t.v. before I go to bed. I admit, I have become somewhat of a political talk show junkie, and that I have even watching Fox news, if I can't find any other political commentary, as of late. I turned to CNN last night, however, just in time to catch Keith going crazy. I wish I could you tube and put a video of his temper tantrum right here on my blog, but I haven't learned how to do that yet. If any one out there in cyberspace wants to help me, let me know...

If you didn't see it, you'll have to take my word for it, Keith was really out of line. I was only half paying attention to his commentary on Sara Palin and the whole lipstick on a pig debacle. Basically, he was defending Senator Obama and while I don't think the comment is the worst thing in the world, I don't know if I would defend it as much as I would say it was a mistake, everyone makes mistakes, and try to minimize its real importance in this real. If you ask me, Senator Obama should be more concerned about he how alienated millions of female voters
by not choosing Hillary Clinton as his v.p., but that's just my take.

It was Keith's tirade about Senator McCain that was super scary. He started off saying that McCain is trying to commercialize 9/11. He might be, but let's be honest, all of the candidates are watching their ps and qs today and trying to get voter mileage out of this day of terrible tragedy in American History. It's the nature of the political beast, and there is no way around it for any one running for office. He picked on Rudi Giuliani, and blamed him in part for 9/11. Again, could be partly his fault, but certainly, in his way, he tried to help the people of NYC in the wake of 9/11, and I certainly do not think that Rudi Giuliani deliberately did anything to bring about 9/11, which Olbermann implied.

Then he got on McCain for making a statement, in which he claimed that he knew how to capture Osama Bin Laden, and that if he was elected he would do so. This is when the foam starting coming out of old Keith's mouth, and his eyes began to bulge, and if I not mistaken, his skin began to turn green, and he muttered "you won't like me when I'm angry."

"Mr. McCain", he said, in the tone of a prosecutor delivering a closing argument on a mass murderer, (and now I'm paraphrasing) if you can find and deliver Osama Bin Laden to the United States government, and you don't because you don't get elected that is tantamount to "aiding and abetting" Osama Bin Laden.

Okay, like I said, I consider myself to be "liberal", but this is way over the line. John McCain, your candidate or not, is a former P.O.W. He risked his life for our country, and even if you don't agree with his policies or politics, I think it is an absolute abomination to link him in with Taliban leader, Osama bin Laden. I mean, Keith, are you kidding? What in the hell have you ever done besides sit your ass on a chair and talk nonsense for hours on end, and probably get paid a fortune to do so.

What angers me about this guy is that not only is he making outlandish and ridiculous statements about a man who served our country as a POW, he is simultaneously denigrating democrats everywhere. This is guy is no better than Rush Limbaugh, polarizing political discourse with hate speech to promote his personal agenda. I am revolted, disgusted, and ashamed.

Why can't people have level headed discussions about politics where they keep their disagreements to the issues and avoid distasteful, personal attacks. I expect better behavior from my children. Not that I always get it, but at least, I expect it.

The seven habits of highly ineffective, but predominantly happy, people

2008-09-09T19:54:00.000-07:00

The start of school, is for me, much like the New Year. In fact since I was born in September, in all actuality, it is my personal New Year, and as such, for as long as I can remember I have spent many a September afternoon making resolutions about how the upcoming year will be better.

For example:
1) I buy calendars and highlighters and pens, and I make an attempt to write down important dates
2) I try to prepare the night before for the next morning
3) In my head, I make an imaginary schedule that includes a regular wake time, breakfast time, lunch time;etc.
4) I assign different days of the week different chores; Monday, I'll do the laundry; Tuesday; I'll run errands; Wednesday; I'll prepare all the meals for the following week ( yes, in the hypothetical realm I have very lofty goals).

Of course, a week or two into my new "schedule", I always drop the ball. The phone rings and I talk too long. The baby wants to go outside to play and we scrap the laundry for an hour wagon ride, or an hour of digging the dirt. The rain makes me want to stay inside and read or write or both and so we skip a trip to the grocery store and get take out for dinner....

A few years ago, I read the book, The Seven habits of highly effective people, and I had one of those Oprah aha!moments. Now I understood. Now that I saw all of those dynamic pyramids and charts. I'd put all into play and conquer the world...and then the phone rang, and I was pregnant, again, or the roof was leaking ,or somebody had cellulitis...

Well, a couple of weeks ago, I was really motivated and trying to unpack the rest of the boxes from our move LAST YEAR. Yes, I know. Mostly what is left in these boxes are old clothes, potential hand me downs, that I will likely hold on to and find, just after whoever the article would have been handed down to, has outgrown it; and books. So, I'm looking through the books and I come across the book about being highly effective.

I bring it up to my nightstand and I think, I should probably reread this. Obviously, I missed something. And then, in another Aha moment, I thought to myself, maybe in fact I did not miss anything. Maybe I should just embrace my ineffectiveness, after all, it isn't sooo bad, and it does have its pluses. So without further ado, I give you my list... The Seven Habits of highly ineffective, but predominantly happy people...

(1) In the morning when you first wake up and hear everyone else clamoring, close your eyes really tight, curl up in a bawl, and firmly pull the covers of your head. Just for a moment, be thankful that you are still in bed, even though every one else is up. After that moment, inevitably, you will be torn out of bed, but the feeling of relishing that last moment of sleep while every else faces the harsh reality of the am is really priceless

(2) Lose your keys, or purse, or something really important, at least once a week. This way you can stay home while someone else picks up your kids, a gallon of milk;etc. You'd do it for them, if you had your keys....

(3) Walk barefoot. Sure your feet will be nasty and dirty at the end of the day, but walking shoeless on the ground feels damn good. Plus, you won't have to justify to your husband why you need to spend thirty dollars and a hour on a spa pedicure while he watches the five kids. He'll be begging you to get the dogs cleaned up.

(4) Talk to people when they call. Or when you meet them in the store, or anywhere else. Not complete strangers. I mean don't end up on a milk carton, but when by coincidence you run into someone, stop and say a few words. Don't be in such a damn rush to get off the phone either. People are important; things can wait.

(5) Do things on an as needed basis. We are society of very prepared people. We go to Costco and buy enough goat cheese and laundry detergent and toilet paper so that we won't run out, because God forbid there'd be a snowstorm and we couldn't wash clothes for the five hours it takes to salt the roads.
When school starts, we amass wardrobes for our kids for the entire school year, as if that one weekend in August will be our last trip to the store before June.
So what if you wash the kids clothes the night before? Is there some law that says outfits for everyday of the week must be lined up in the closet and ready to go? Trust me, they look the same whether they come straight out of the closet or straight out of the dryer in the am. No one will know the difference.

(6) Co sleep. I mean what is all this bullshit that people can't get rest when their kids sleep in their bed. Yeah, I know they kick, and they roll over, and they wake you unexpectedly; but seriously so do partners and boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives, and no one is telling you to put them in another room and let them scream it out until they fall asleep. Besides, kids outgrow this. Trust me, they won't want to sleep in your bed on prom night; and if you think about that, it'll make the kicking and the rolling much more tolerable.

(7) Don't have too many habits, or things you "have" to do. In a flash, life can change drastically. The more flexible you are, the better you'll be at rolling with the inevitable ups and downs. Or, at least that's what I tell myself.

Hello High School.Goodbye Sanity (or what I have left of it)

2008-09-08T06:35:00.000-07:00

As if I weren't crazy enough navigating the ups and downs of life with five children, now the oldest one insists on going to high school. And a real at that. She rudely declined my generous offer to home school her with an eye roll, a sigh, and an "oh, mom, would please be serious." It is a well confirmed fact that she is more mature than I am. Did you ever see the show family ties? Well, let's just say she is Alex P. Keaton, and I a mixture of Elise (Meredith Baxter Birney's character) and Mallory (the dim witted sister, played by Justine Bateman).

"It'll be fun. I"ll teach you all the really important things in life- like how to do laundry, wash dishes, change diapers, and clean a house."
"I already know how to do those things."
"Yes, you know how to do them, but at home school, you would actually do them."
Another eye roll, sigh, and exasperated MOOOOOOOOOOM.

You parents of cute little babies, toddlers, even my friends with middle schoolers, you don't know what you are in for... remember the scene in Jaws...the opening scene where the drunk girl goes out for a fun night time swim, only to tire and lay on a buoy for a short rest. Her head, spinning from her obvious buzz, she is comforted by the large buoyant object-the only thing that she can lean on in the vast, open ocean. Unfortunately, she can only take a brief breath before an angry, great white shark attacks her, drags her under the ocean, and eats her.

This is the best comparison of what it felt like to take my daughter to high school.

I remember her first day of school. She was about 14 months old. No, she is not that much of a genius, when I say school, I actually mean day care, but for my purposes, the two are equivalent. This was the first institution to which I surrender her. That first day, I dressed her in this little yellow duck outfit. It was one of those long, wide tops that criss cross in the back and fasten with one large button. Not quite a shirt, and not quite a dress, it came as a set with little bloomers, which covered her diaper. I can still remember how it was trimmed in white ric rac, and how moved my fingers back on forth over that trim as I held her in those final seconds before I handed her over to the teacher. I ran down the hall as I heard her start to scream. I headed towards my car crying. It would not be the last time that I left her there and left in tears, but of course, things did get better. She really connected with her teacher, which is a nice, non obnoxious way of saying that she was the teacher's favorite. In most cases I shun nepotism, but when I left my fourteen month old baby in the care of complete strangers, some how justice for all became a lot less important to me than my own child's happiness.

She made it through day care and by age three, she moved on to nursery school. She was a "farm friend", and she loved it and flourished in this program. She still drank from a bottle, which I covertly snuck her every afternoon when I picked her up from school. She would be so tired that I'd have to carry her into the house, where she would watch the video, BARNEY GOES TO SCHOOL every afternoon before she took a nap. I would sing along because I developed a sort of barney related schizophrenia wherein I heard his voice in my head singing these songs ALL DAY LONG.

When we moved back to my home town from the south, my daughter started first grade at the same elementary school that I went to as a child. The school starts at age three, so as a first grader, she was the "New Kid", which is not always easy to be. I still remember the sleepover a girl in her class had. In a very small school, a mother who clearly wasn't thinking, or was thinking something she should have been, decided to allow her daughter to invite half of the girls to her birthday sleepover. It was on a Friday night. At the end of the school day, the mom picked up all the invited guests from school. My daughter watched most of her friends tote their sleeping bags and their overnight kits down the hallway before they merrily boarded this mom's minivan. Naturally, she was upset.

That night, I realized that there was absolutely nothing that I could do to make it better, and that while compared to the possible disappointments she could have been suffering at that very moment, that disappointment was extremely minor, her little self could not understand that; or if she could, she did care. It was the biggest thing in her life. For the moment. Which, of course was fleeting, but seemed eternal for at least twenty four hours.

In June, my daughter "graduated" from this school with more good memories than bad. Ready to move on and yet sad to leave. I was thankful for the summer, high school was still three months away.

Three months, however, passed quickly. Trips here and there and everywhere coupled with the day to day maintenance of the house, the children, and our Olympic hopeful cat made the time fly faster than ever. I wonder if each year will get progressively shorter as I get progressively older. Actually, I don't wonder, I know; but I like to pretend that I wonder, and that maybe I am wrong, and time will eventually slow down.

Yesterday was orientation. We took her to the high school that she chose. This was a departure from how I was raised. My parents told me in no uncertain terms that I would go to an all girls catholic academy, and I did go, kicking and screaming all the way. I made friends and had fun along the way, but I didn't think then and I still don't think now that it was the right fit for me. Who knows though? I don't look back and judge.

Anyway, off she went this morning, in a skirt not much longer than the bloomer combination she wore to her first day of daycare. There were no tears today. I dropped her off close enough so that she wouldn't have to walk too far, but far enough away so that I couldn't be seen. Imagine the embarrassment. Cell phone in one hand, my lip gloss (which I confiscated) in the other, she leaned into the door. "I'll call you when I need a ride",

And all that was left to say was, "I'll be there..."

Um apparently being born to a teenage mom does not ruin your life (cough, Barack Obama,cough)

2008-09-04T18:20:00.000-07:00

A lot has been happening in the political arena these days. Between the conventions, the VP picks, the historic candidates;etc.etc. I'm not about to go on some diatribe about my own political opinions, so you can breathe a huge sigh of relief. What I do want to address is what I think may be one of the single best things that the American people can learn from this election, and that is that teenage pregnancy is NOT the end of the world.

Now I am not advocating that anyone call up their daughter's boyfriend and invite them for a sleepover. Whoa Betty. I was that kind of teenager whose parents looked the other way, sometimes, or just enough times for me to get into too much trouble. My daughter will not date until she is financially independent or forty, which ever comes first. Given her penchant for designer labels and the finer things, I'm thinking she will probably be forty.

I have learned in my life as a young mother, who had her first child at age nineteen, that "mistakes" happen, and they happen a lot more often than people would like to believe. The narrow stereotype of the teenage mother does not permit mainstream Americans to believe that good girls, smart girls, capable and competent girls can also be teenage mothers. As a result, a huge prejudice exists against teenage mothers that often extends to their offspring.

Just a couple of weeks ago, my daughter who recently completed middle school and is now headed to a different school entirely for high school confided in me that during her days at her small, private, elementary school, she was often teased about having the youngest parents by both students and teachers alike.

Just last year, she told me "Mrs. so and so said, she could be your mother, and my grandmother and she is only in her fifties." Well, whoop dee doo, I thought in my head. Amazing, the woman didn't even teach math, and yet clearly she was a mathematical genius to be able to calculate that!

I tried to pretend to be exasperated by that remark and by some of the other snippy remarks my daughter told me about. The truth was, I was surprised by none of them, I have heard them a hundred thousand times before.

People have asked me questions, such as "What did you start when you were like 15?" If I had a nickel for every time some one said to me, "You don't look old enough to have a child that age", or "you must have been a baby when you had her." As yes, babies giving birth to babies is a very common occurrence. I remember taking my daughter to school for the first time and the headmaster said to me, in a very condescending tone, "you look like you could be in eighth grade."

Of course, the stupid comments aren't so bad in and of themselves. What frustrates, and agitates, and angers me when people say these things, is the fact that they clearly lack any respect for me. Any person with a normal level of sensitivity would understand that such a subject might be difficult to talk about, and therefore would not, for example, ask me at the shoe counter how old I was when I started having children? The notion in our society is that young mothers are not worthy of and do not deserve respect.

Young mothers place a drain on society. They are not competent or capable of being good parents. Nowadays, the bar is raised higher and higher everyday as to at what age a person can be a really good parent. The acceptable age seems to be at a minimum 25; with people over thirty being concerned more perfect for the job.

It's kind of like the whole presidential debate. Do you need experience to be a great president, or is good judgement more important? Do youth or old age significantly impact what kind of job a person will do? Does doing something for a longer time necessarily make people better at it? Or does it depend on the person. The totality of who they are, what they believe, how hard they are willing to work, what their intellectual ability is, what their educational background is;etc;etc.

I believe it does depend on the person and that everyone deserves a shot. You can't simply judge people by numbers and facts on a paper; and you shouldn't look at people differently or believe they are less capable simply because they have made a "mistake", or they have made a lifestyle choice that is out of the norm. And yet I see this happen everyday. When people ask me how old my oldest child is, their faces drop. Their minds quickly attempt to calculate, to add up what, to them, just isn't right.

I hope during this campaign season, Americans will begin to reevaluate their prejudices against teenage mothers and their children. I hope that they will see Barack Obama as a historic candidate, not only because he is African American, but also because he is the son of a teenage a mom. A mom who loved him; who struggled against adversity; who stuck through the hard times to raise a son so special that he became an historical candidate for the presidency. Apparently, she was old enough, smart enough, competent enough to do a good job.

The story of Sarah Palin's pregnant daughter should also give the country a chance to see firsthand that all teenage mother's are not selfish, stupid, and lazy. The scrutiny that this poor, young girl will have to face as the daughter of a vice presidential candidate will most certainly be ten times the scrutiny she would face as an unknown teen mother; but I hope that her additional suffering will not be for naught. In a more modest setting that celeb teenage moms, this young woman will have the chance to show the nation that choosing to become a teen mom is, in most cases, a brave choice; a great sacrifice; and the type of job that only a person of true substance and character would be willing to undertake.

So many see this race as a win for women; a win for African Americans; and of course it is. But no matter what party wins, I see this as a win for young mothers everywhere. We mustn't hide in the shadows; we mustn't believe those who tell us we have ruined our lives forever. We mustn't allow society to define us. Rather, we must hold our heads high knowing we are capable of making the best of things; of turning our lives around; of putting our noses up in the face of adversity; and of raising children who one day might be president.

After all, everyone in this life makes mistakes, faces challenges, and comes to a crossroad. What defines a person is not what happens to them but how they handle it. Hopefully this campaign season will help to illuminate this truth especially as it pertains to teenage mothers. If it does, then no matter what else happens, this election will truly be about change.

Baby, you are the best

2008-08-30T13:31:00.000-07:00

So my most recent non-sensical real life ranting and ravings have been about my cat, Stuart. I made up, I mean, I intuited,(would someone please teach me how to strike) this whole crazy thing about Stuart becoming very, very jealous of Micheal Phelps while he watched the olympics.

I am guest poster over at http://mommyneedstherapy.blogspot.com/ today, and you can read all about Stuart and his olympic dreams on this blog, which belongs to my new blog buddy and northeast neighbor, Kristine.

While most of my friends and family have laughed at me/ with me when I tell them this story, my one friend, Meredith, has actually fully indulged me in this flight of fancy. Meredith is an artist, and has even agreed to draw the illustrations for my children's book, Introducing Stuart the Cat. I have been writing this in my head for a very long time as Stuart is almost nine years old. I am sure after this post, many, many publishers will be contacting me.

Last night, while hanging out with Meredith, my brother and some other friends, Meredith presented me with a gift. This, in itself, entitles her to the compliment that is the title of this post. I was so appreciative of her thoughtfulness. When I opened it, I nearly fell to the floor in hysterics.

It was purchased at Cafe press. The bowl was in stock, and not a custom order. The journal, she hand created. She also showed me t-shirts that she has had made on the sight. My only concern is that she is going to develop the type of unhealthy relationship with cafe press that some people have with the home shopping network. Don't worry, Mer, I will reign you in if you get out of control. For now, these are definitely some of the best gifts I have ever received. And next time, we'll go to karoke and I'll actually sing you my go to song by Carly Simon, Baby, you're the best. Now head over and read guest post and leave many, many comments/compliments

Being Laurie of the seven stories

2008-08-23T20:55:00.000-07:00

To my readers who have never seen this movie, Being John Malkovich(sp?) I apologize, this post is not for you. Those of you who have seen the movie, this is what it is like being Laurie of the seven stories. Yes, I am working on a half floor and subsquently,constantly bumping my head on shit.

8:45 A.m. Baby Tasha wakes me up by screaming MA MA MA- my usual reply on a Saturday- Daddy will get you breakfast is met with vehement opposition. I must climb the steps to the first floor, and pretend I know how to cook. Luckily pouring milk on a bowl of separated frosted mini wheats is like a gourmet breakfast for my 1 yr old.

10 AM my oldest daughter informs me that only I can take her to her hair appointment. I am simulataneously scared to death and flattered. I know nothing good can come of this, and yet WTF she is wanting me. Isn't this like Armstong on the moon?

10:45 A hairstylist says to me, "is that what she wants?" I laugh diabolically. Thank Fing God this is not my job. "Oh no, I say,whatever she wants, I will not be to blame.

12:00am I am the target_ I call my husband- I am going to run errands until she is done at the hair dressers. OK, I guess I am housebound he says. Yes I say,that's what my whole week is like. Yes , he says, but I have a job. Oh right and I am home with five kids doing nothing, how silly of me (I say gasping for air)

12:25 I try to text msg my friend who has now sent me three texts out of guilt for not attending my party last week. The last one is ome peace, and I have no idea what the f this means? I want to text her back to her let her know I am not really really mad, but secret, I have no idea how to text. I am practicing and accidentally send her a message telling her - not ready for school 2 much work bthweieas256343. I do not know how to erase.

12:45 Run into my cousin at TaRget, whom I haven't seen in awhile. Last time I saw her she was at my front door demanding I write her a check for something like a walk athon. I see her in the target- she has tears in her eyes. Her husband is pushing the cart smiling and laughing like a hyena. I say Hi and my friendliness is met with animosity. Bye then , she says, pushing me and my empty cart aside. leaving her husband to smile at me bewildered. WTF, again.

1:00 Msg from my daughter. I hate my hair and told the stylist. She is redoing it. I wonder if I can call the hospital and find my real child. The one who looks in the mirror while in the chair, screaming inside, and says, it looks great, I love it, until she gets home and tells her mother how her visit to the hairdresser has destroyed her life.

1:15 Call my cousin Jennifer who reassures me our other cousin is crazy. She tells me she is making Team Laurie shirts for the family wedding next week. I tell her that if I have inadvertently offended her in any way, that I am sorry, but ya know...

1:45 After having her hair redone, daughter proves she is mine by acting just as I once did. ANother one bites the dust.

2:45 Get kids ready to go over to Moira and Chaz's house for dinner and swim. Will these people stop at nothing for publicity?

12:15am arrive home- tired, distraught, banging my head on the low ceiling and lookin forward to my anniversary- not of my marriage, but of the night that Moira and I drank on her patio until 5 am without realizing it was past say 2 am. Chaz reminded us tonight it will be a yr this week. He is offering again to take the kids to the baseball game. I am expecting a candle light dinner....

And this folks is what it is like to be me. Talk about your major motion pictures

The Spohrs may be multiplying, but we're producing on the playground as well...

2008-08-21T20:09:00.000-07:00

Isabelle, the Diva
No, I wasn't in pageants(shocking) Aidan, Ethan and Sierra

The little girls

Tasha

Tasha take two

Okay, so here's the deal. I want to be a successful blogger, writer; etc.; etc. I have joined many groups- all mediocre, local philly mommy bloggers, blog nut, I am a blissfully domestic diva- and still I am not quite where I want to be or where I think I should be.

There are a lot of blogs that seem to get quite a bit of attention. I think these blogs are great and deserving, but I think my blog is equally great and deserving, so hey give a girl a chance.

Recently, when visiting the blog of another all mediocre member, I wondered if, for a moment, what is missing from my blog are more pictures of my baby beauties.

One blog in particular, The Spohrs are Multiplying seems to get a lot of attention because it includes some very cute pictures of baby Maddie. But here is the thing- while the Spohrs may have multiplied and made one heck of a cute kid- over here at the playground, we are freaking mass producing. I mean, not only do we have one adorable baby, we also have four other reasonably cute kids.

So all you Spohr lovers, mommy bloggers, baby lovers and kid connoisseurs, won't you consider spending some time on the playground? It's really fun, I promise- I'll be your best friend, I'll share, and I'll always give you a push when you need one.

Dealing Drugs at the Park

2008-08-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

Hello again, loyal readers. I'm glad to see that all four, oh and you in the back make five, of you have returned. I have a moment, of which I am excessively proud, to share with you for today's tale.

Allow me to mention first, however, that when I returned home tonight, I checked my email only to find that I have been asked to join a blogger community called blognut. I have added a button link on my sidebar. The Universe must be in proper alignment, as clearly my peers are now easily able to find me, and to invite me to join them.

Loyal readers, you will remember me telling you about my fabulous beyond fabulous friend Moira. Remember, the one married to the handsome, and excessively charming Chaz. They attended the eighties party with me, and yet Moira was quick to point out in my comments that though she had a good time, most of the music was from the nineties. It was at that party also, if you recall me mentioning, that both Moira and Chaz, loyal readers and real world friends told me that my blog would improve ten fold, if I made more mention of how fabulous the two of them are, and if I talked about all of our awesome times together.

This evening I have the perfect opportunity to mention Moira again, and to test her theory.

This morning was a crazy morning. While lounging in bed at ten of nine with the little girls, since the boys were still sleeping, I decided to check my voice mail. There was a message from our Dentist, who happens to be my Uncle, who happens to hate lateness and missed appointments, which was a reminder call for the boys' dental appointments. They were today! At 9:45 a.m.!

All hell broke loose. Showers were turned on. Clothes were gathered. Hair was brushed in the car. As we pulled away, the girls sat in their car seats, still in their pajamas, drinking from sippy cups and eating granola bars for breakfast.

After I took the boys to the dentist, dropped them off, ran home, bathed and changed the girls, dressed myself, and returned to pick the boys up, we went out for a late breakfast/ early lunch, before returning home. I was sitting at the computer, trying to balance my checkbook, pay bills, assemble school papers, and deciding what uniforms I still needed to order when Moira called.

We talked on the phone for a few minutes...
Yes, the kids are making me crazy, too. No, I forgot to take the dental forms to be filled out for school with me to the office this morning. Yes, I did find a good place to buy massive quantities of navy Knee socks; my house also looks like a bomb hit it; and pretty much I can not stand the thought of having to go back to school. No matter what, I am not volunteering for anything this year.

Finally, I say to Moira, as I can hear her kids chanting in the background, "Can we go to Petco?", Do you want to take these kids to the park for a bit?

Initially, she says, "No, I can't". She starts to list all of the things that she really has to do. The lizards need live crickets to eat. At 11cents a cricket, she reasons she may spend more feeding the lizards this year than we currently spend to send our children to private school. Sounds impossible to me, but they could be very hungry lizards. Perhaps, it is the thought that all of her money will either be spent educating the children or feeding the lizards that makes her decide to say, "I'll meet you in a half an hour."

We arrive at the park at about the same time. We have three kids, the same age and the same sex, so instantly they all run off and go play. We would like to sit in the shade and just bitch, but I still have Tasha to traipse after. When the rest of the gang decides to include Tasha in their escapades, we begin to discuss everything from what teacher our kids got, to what class got more "bad"kids, to how difficult it is to get all the back to school shit together. We wonder if it's all worth it.

We talk about the flurry of activities about to begin. Monday thru Friday nights will again be booked up by sports, religion classes, homework, dance and music lessons. The lazy days of summer sure are fading fast, and we both agree that we feel like we are drowning in a sea of registration forms, plaid kilts, and navy blue polo shirts. Why neither of us has brought a flask to the park is really puzzling.

At the end of our spur of the moment play date, our kids play the "I'll hide in the other mom's car" game. No one wants to leave- no one wants to go to their right house. Everyone wants one more sleepover, one more game of hide and seek, one more afternoon of unplanned fun. We look at the kids and realize how big they are getting. When we first met, her oldest, and my second oldest were four; her second son and mine were under two, and we were both pregnant with the girls, who have grown up to be best of buddies. Sadly, this is the first year they won't be in the same class year. Time changes absolutely everything.

As we try to remove the kids from each other's cars- we exchange other items with one another. A toy her daughter left at our house, my daughter has brought along to return. She has extra uniforms for me, since someone gave her a lot of girls clothes. We say goodbye, and as she begins to pull away, I jump from my car waving my pill bottle, "wait"...

That was the other thing we were going to exchange. I was going to give her some xanax; she was going to share her atavan. She wants to feel normal, not sleepy; and I can't sleep lately, worrying about pretty much everything. I stand at her car window, in the park parking lot, pill bottle in hand. She pulls hers from her purse.

This is really bad, she says. You gotta write about this on your blog.

It's a damn good thing we are not celebrities being stalked by tabloids. There would be tons of pictures of this exchange everywhere, I tell her.

We laugh, do our drug deal in the parking lot,and then part ways.

We may be getting older, we may be moms of school aged children, but we are still incorrigible and crazy. At least, some things in our lives have stayed the same. And for the things that are in flux, thank god we have the meds.

A WHOLE NEW WORLD

2008-08-15T16:16:00.001-07:00

Last night, I did something that I don't normally do- I had a home party, a.k.a., a demonstration. For the past couple of days, I was really dreading it, for several reasons. First and foremost, it meant that I had to clean up my entire house; second, it meant I had to invite my friends to spend money on my behalf; and third, it was stressful having to worry if everyone would mesh and if the party would have a good flow. I mean, I like to entertain, and most of the parties that I have had are fun, but demonstrations are different. I have been to some that are a smashing success, and others that have been downright disastrous. Fortunately, my party wound up actually being fun,.

The bonus of the whole event was that I invited some of my "new" neighbors and got to meet quite a few of them. Last year, we moved out of our 70yr old home to new construction in a development neighborhood. At first, I was a bit skeptical. I had never really lived in a "planned community" before, but I had heard horror stories. I thought that I was an "old home" kind of girl. I imagined transforming my house into a home featured in the centerfold of country living. In fact, my life in the old house more resembled scenes from the film the "Money Pit" than it did pages from a decorating magazine, and so alas, we decided moving would be our best.

Last summer, when we moved in, we were the third house. The landscape of our new neighborhood was filled with dirt piles, bull dozers and empty lots. In this less than stellar real estate market, we did not see as many new neighbors move in as we would have liked to, but gradually houses were built, and people moved in. There are now probably about ten occupied houses, although one is up for sale because the homeowner failed to incorporate the tax bill into their monthly payment. I wonder how this could happen, but I suppose anything is possible...

In any case, I now know three of my lovely neighbors. They are all quite different from one another, and yet I really feel like I could have a friendship with each and every one of them. None of them are from around here, and they are all looking to make new acquaintances and friends. I am from here but know and understand the importance of always meeting new people. Making new friends, and meeting new and different people enhances perspective, and ultimately life.

After coming to my "party", one of my new neighbors even invited me to come in and see her house while I was out for a walk with Tash. Tash played with her daughter and had a snack and we talked for awhile about kids, houses, motherhood, the neighborhood;etc. When we left, I pushed Tash home in the stroller, waving to my next door neighbor whom I have known for sometime, but now know better, and thinking, "gee, I feel like I'm on the set of desperate housewives", minus, of course, all of the murder, and most of the scandal. Who knows, maybe in a couple of months, we'll have a weekly card game going?

As I am thinking all of this, I am simultaneously trying to match my new found friends, and myself, with the characters from Wisteria Lane. I'm not sure exactly who I'd be. I' d like to Bree, but I know I'm much more like a combinations of Teri Hatcher and Lynette. A scatterbrained, crazy mom of many kids, trying to survive disaster. Yup, that's me.

Which housewife would you be? Do you watch? Did you see the final show, and if so, have you heard this season will be set five years in the future. Personally, after losing interest in past seasons, I have found my love of this show to be renewed. What do you think? I'd love to know.

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends...

2008-08-12T19:20:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned earlier this week, we just returned home from two weeks at the Jersey Shore. SO FABULOUS, it was and I will get the pictures up in the next couple of days! During the second week of our vacation, my cousin, yes I do have a lot of cousins, Tony and his wife, Heidi came in from Chicago to stay at his parents' shore house. They brought their two little girls, Emma and Lilly, who are two and a half and one and a half, and of course, my kids nearly ate them up. They don't have any first cousins yet and they just love these girls to pieces, especially Isabelle, my five year old.

Emma really enjoyed Isabelle as well. Everywhere we went, Emma wanted Isabelle to push her in her stroller. Emma would say to Isabelle, "Emma is going to the beach, does Isabelle want to go with Emma to the beach?" IDK, but there is something so amazingly cute about a kid who talks about herself in the third person. Lilly is almost exactly the same age as Tasha, and they two, were best of buds. Tasha really loved to hug Lilly, and kiss her, and share her sippy cup with her.

Naturally, with the kids getting along so well, Heidi and I wound up spending a lot of time together. A new mom who is living away from friends and family, Heidi doesn't really spend much, if any time, around other mothers of young children. She anxiously asked me many questions about what is normal for children; how to get through the day; what discipline strategies work; etc. She confided in me that she is often lonely and alone, because my cousin works long hours, and because she doesn't really know any other mothers.

As my children mixed cheezits with sand, she looked at me and said " you are so laid back, I wish I could be that way." By contrast, I am laid back, and she is more wound up and up tight. Little things like how many ice creams the girls had during the week, or whether or not they napped for exactly three hours did seem to bother her. Emma saying "no" and not always obeying, as most two years I have ever seen do, was embarrassing to her. I could sense her unease with motherhood in general, and I wanted to give her some advice- not that I am expert in anyway, but I could sympathize, I have been there.

I spent the first six years of my daughter's life, and the first two years of my son's, living in the foreign land of South Carolina, which to a Yankee, who had only ever gone south to Florida, was like another world. When I had my first born, I was terribly alone and often felt isolated. These are not good conditions for a mother. What's more, for a long time, I had no friends who were also mommies, so the only meter by which I could measure my success as a mommy was my own mother.

Mother's from other generations have selective memories, and often revise history. They do not remember how their children actually acted, but rather they remember how they thought their children should have acted.

My mom does not remember us fighting, or not sitting still in restaurants, or talking back, or throwing our clothes on our bedroom floors. She remembers us as good, well-behaved children, which sometimes we were, but just as often, we were not. Not that we were bad, but we were normal. My mom also remembers herself as the perfect wife, always with dinner on the table when my dad came through the door, beds made, clothes clean and put away. She forgets that we had a full time housekeeper, and that she did not work. My mom doesn't remember that she needed time away from us, which was why she was involved with various committees, the president of the PTA, and the junior league; or that she and my dad went out at least one night every weekend while we were babysat. Since she doesn't remember any of this, she doesn't today understand why moms need nights out...

When my mom was my only sounding board, and I spent many days without talking to another soul over the age of five, other than my husband who just didn't get it, I was a lot like Heidi. I was uptight, always wondering in my mind, are my kids normal? Am I doing the right thing? I would sit in my house thinking that everywhere else, moms were doing things better than I was. Their houses were cleaner, their kids better behaved, their lives, in general, were running better than mine.

And then gradually, I started to meet some of the other moms in the world. The ones that I imagined did not exist. Moms in reality were a lot like me. They had trouble juggling the housework and the kids. They lost their minds from day to day trying to get their kids to share, to put their toys away, to go to bed at night. Gradually, I began to realize that as a mom and a wife and a person, I was ok, I was normal- if there is such a thing, and it was then that I really began to relax, and motherhood got just a little bit easier. (As I say this, I am knocking on every piece of wood I can reach from my computer chair)

The advice that I gave to Heidi was that she should return to Chicago and join a moms group. I told her to find other mothers with whom she could trade babysitting so that she can get out alone once in a while. I also told her to watch other moms with their kids so that she can see that her kids act normal, and above all else, I advised her to make some friends with moms in her same boat, so that she can have some people to commiserate with.

I don't know the secrets to discipline, or diet, or how to make your house sparkly clean while serving a gourmet meal to bright eyed, appreciative children, but I do know the secret to surviving motherhood, and that is without a doubt, to have friends with whom you can share your struggles and successes. Motherhood can be a very isolating job- especially for SAHMs who don't have co-workers or human resource departments to help us out when we are feeling blue. We have to recruit, and sometimes this can be hard work, but it is worth it.

I hope things get better for Heidi. I promised myself that I would do a better job of being a long distance relative. Talking to her made me realize how truly grateful I am for the friends I have. Shout out to all of you I know in the real world, and those of you who support me in cyberspace, I couldn't get by without you.

No costume can save her from looking bad...

2008-08-11T18:27:00.000-07:00

So my cousin Phil's ex girlfriend, ex is in italics because it is on again off again, and as of this moment I'm not sure which it is, is a costume designer in NYC. I believe she works primarily in off Broadway productions, but who knows maybe she has even done some Broadway productions. If I remember correctly, my other cousin Elyse, Phil's sister told me something about Sara, the costume designer, buying t-shirts for Michelle Pfeiffer for some performance.

For this reason, everyone wants to know Sara.
Everyone loves Sara-because Sara is a costume designer, and has met and perhaps worked with famous people, and thus she must be wonderful.
Everyone loves Sara, except perhaps my cousin, who in his defense is truly a very nice guy, me, and my friend, Meredith- who is a mutual friend of mine and my cousins.

To me, Sara is obnoxious, crass, and downright nasty. For this behavior, I have heard many excuses. "That's how New Yorkers are", someone said to me. Others, some my actual relatives, defend her in virtue of the fact that she is a costume designer, as if this gives her some type of license to be a miserable. nasty. bitch.

The first encounter that I ever had with the girl was when my cousin brought her to my house. We were having a get together and watching football. She came in, looking extremely annoyed, sighed,stuck her nose out, and said, "I can't believe people really watch this." Then she proceeded to tell me how she couldn't understand how we could possibly live in the small town that we do. I'm sure that we lacked sophistication and savvy. I, on the other hand, thought she lacked manners and authenticity. How trite to play the sophisticated New Yorker who can't fathom life in a small town. If you are going to be obnoxious, at least be original. At least, that's my motto.

I made up my mind that I didn't like her.

Elyse encouraged me to give her another chance. Some how she was certain that I misread her. I don't know why. Actually, I think I'm pretty sound minded and a good judge of character. What I am not is phony, and the type of person that says that I like everyone. Everyone in this world can not like everyone else in this world, and some people really are terrible. Nevertheless, I did give Sara another chance, at a family wedding.

My other cousin was getting married in Rhode Island, and my husband and I, and my siblings and all of my other younger relatives were staying in a hotel, and we all decided to go out on the town. The kids were not invited and were staying with my FIL. Elyse and I knocked on Sara and Phil's room door to ask them if they wanted to go out. Sara stared at me hard when she answered the door.

Oh, Laurie, she said, I didn't recognize you without your gaggle of children.

That was strike two.

Last year, Phil moved back from NYC and broke up with Sara. The news delighted me, especially because as I said, Phil is a really nice guy, and I have no idea why he is with Sara. NO, she is not pretty, and yes, he is cute. Kind of looks like Jason Bateman. I thought my days of even thinking about this beastly girl were over... and then last month Phil had a party at his house here for his thirty third birthday, and yup you guessed it, Sara was there.

Fortunately, for all parties involved, I could not make it. The gaggle needed to be tended, and I couldn't get another goose to sit on them for me. My friend, Meredith, was, however, able to attend. She had never met Sara before. I warned her, but she seemed to take my admonition with a grain of salt. I could tell she was thinking, how bad could she be?

At the party, this question was answered, almost immediately for her.

Phil introduced Meredith to Sara, who was complaining about the bugs.

Sara asked Meredith, "What do you do?"

Meredith, who is also an extremely nice person, soft spoken and mild mannered, told Sara that she is a stay at home mom.

Sara's response was a deadpan, "I'm sorry."

Meredith was stunned, and began to stammer about apologetically, trying to explain why she has made such a poor decision for her life's direction.

Sara continued on, Don't you want to do something with her life that would make your children proud of you?"

When Meredith recounted this interaction to me, I was aghast.

What you should have said to her was yes, I do want to do something to make my children proud and that is why I am going to knock you out. Naturally, I was kidding, and I wouldn't honestly resort to violence, but seriously this chick is terrible.

Here is what I'm wondering, and I would love to her thoughts on this- is it just me or do you all find that people held in esteem by others for their perceived success are often allowed to get away with outlandish, outrageous behavior?

So long Shore, Hello home

2008-08-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

Last night, we finally returned home from two weeks at the shore. I swear, I barely remembered what our real house looked like, and to be perfectly honest, for those two weeks, I sincerely did not care.

The shore was a "busy" vacation in the sense that taking kids to the beach everyday is actually a lot of work, and yet it was so relaxing to be away from everything, and to need so little to get through the day. Most of the time, I didn't need my car, my keys, my purse, my shoes;etc. I didn't feel constantly at odds with myself about how to best spend every minute of my day, and I only went to the grocery store one time on the whole vacation.

It was wonderful.

Today, on the other hand, I am back to reality. Being back to the blog, which may or may not qualify as reality, is for sure one of my favorite things about being home. Less exciting is to see that while I was away the laundry I left did not wash itself; bills and other mail continued to accumulate; and the refrigerator did not purge itself of spoiled dairy products.

My husband, who was home alone for the entire first week of our vacation told me he cleaned up the house and handled the mail. I'm not sure what the word clean means to him, but what he did, I can not call cleaning. He may have handled the mail in the sense that he touched it, but he did not return papers that were sent by school and were due back before today; nor did he open, respond to, or inform me of two invitations that we received while I was away, and he was still home- one, for a party that has already happened, the other for my cousins wedding, which hasn't happened, but for which a response was required on August 2. Granted, I think in the case of the wedding, more time should have been given to respond, but still...I was single-handedly managing five children at the beach, and he was?

Right- working, but only til five- which means that he had many nights all to himself. I'd even cut him some slack, but here is the thing. When he did arrive to vacation with us, he told me how rough his week had been. Naturally, I rolled my eyes and said, you have got be kidding me- but he protested my jest, standing firm on the grounds that he did so much at home while we were gone.

So today, I have been scurrying about like a mad woman. I am filling out forms due today, trying to return some of the seventy phone messages that I came home to, and throwing out old gogurt, and sighing loudly as I unpack and repack because three of the kids are going away with my FIL, until Friday, tomorrow morning.

And he keeps saying, "relax, there is really not that much to do."
Maybe he's right, maybe I've been spoiled by my beach bum lifestyle and now reality is too overwhelming, but when he told me this afternoon...
"I'm mowing the lawn and then I'm done, because tomorrow I have to go back to work"
...I had wonder where he thinks I'm going tomorrow- what he thinks I have to do tomorrow?
Why is it that a mother's work is never done, but a father can be finished after he mows the lawn? Because he has a job? If I don't have a job, how can my work never be done- if I don't have a job, why do I have work?
Maybe I have had too much sun.
Tomorrow, I will be back in business. Not sure what business that is, since I don't work, but if I find out, I'll be sure to let you know.

A quick hello...

2008-08-07T13:08:00.001-07:00

Hi, Just stopping in to say I am still alive. Am stealing a moment btw the water park, the beach, the rides, shoving ice cream in my face, desanding four children, yes I still have five but the oldest can shower herself, catching crabs, enjoying my cousins children, dealing with my cousins wife, kidding, and generally just having a great time and plotting what I will do with my life so that I can buy myself a beach house and spend the entire summer at the jersey shore.

I don't want to hear about hypodermic needles. I love jersey!

I have so many stories, pics etc. to share with you when we return on Saturday. My kids, minus the baby and the oldest, are spending all next week with my FIL, and his crazy common law wife, so I promise many worth while posts...please come back to read them, you won't be sorry.

I haven't forgotten also that I owe a story about the woman who said to one of my friends, don't you want to do something to make your children proud, when my friend told her that her job swas to be a stay at home mom.

Tune in.

The next time we hang out... I will be on my couch.

2008-07-29T08:22:00.000-07:00

Life is what you make it according to Miley Cyrrus, and on that note, we agree.

Before I begin, I just want to let you guys know that I am writing to you from an internet cafe on my alleged vacation. Taking five kids to the beach without my husband is not exactly what I would term a vacation, but I can't complain about the change of scenery. Plus, he'll be here on Saturday for week two, so I can't complain too much. More about all of this vaca stuff later.

On a completely random side note, which has nothing to do with this post, I don't know how people write stuff in these places. I feel so naked, so exposed, and also so ridiculous. I mean what difference does it make if these forty people right here, right now. read what I'm writing? Aren't I sending this info all over the world. Still, I find myself looking over my shoulder compulsively.

Anyway, back to Miley. Last Thursday, the girls and I accepted my mom's invitation to go to
NYC for the night so that we could go to Miley Cyrrus' concert on the plaza at the Today show. Isabelle is a huge Hannah fan as I may have mentioned before, and Sierra and I and even my hubby like Miley's song whose lyrics are the first part of the title of this post. I wish I knew its proper name, but I am not that big of a fan.

I was reluctant to go at first. I am not the type of person who wants to hold a sign outside of the today show, screaming, wailing, and trying to get Matt Lauer to kiss me, but I have stood outside the studio from time to time on trips to NYC, most recently when we went over after Thanksgiving to see the Rockettes, and I figured since concert tickets are unattainable, it might not be the worst idea. I knew it would be more crowded than usual, but how could I pass up a night a the Marriot Marquis with two less children. Plus, we'd have Thursday to do other things.

Unfortunately, with an infant, however, we could not go to see any shows. We did walk around a bit, took the girls to Saks, where you can pick your desert off of a conveyor belt in their chocolate cafe, more on this later too, which was something we saw on our pre x-mas visit, but didn't try because of crowds. In the middle of the day, in the middle of July, we sat down no problem, and the girls, even Tashi all loved this!

Next, we spent the evening next door at American girl, dining with dolls. Yes we did eat our way thru NYC.

On the walk back to the hotel we got a glimpse of what the next morning would be like for us. People, with their children, were actually sleeping on the street outside of studio 1A in anticipation of the concert. They had tents, they had pizza delivery, they had little kids who had been on that sidewalk since Wednesday, nearly 48 hours before the concert.

As we passed by, all I could think of was the camera guy from Today who obnoxiously yelled at me as we paused outside of the studio for a few minutes so that our oldest daughter Sierra, who currently believes she wants to be a broadcast journalist, could see the show in the making.

It was drizzling slightly, and Tasha was in a down snow suit, a blanket over here, tucked in her stroller. We were in route to see the rockettes and had about twenty minutes to spend there.

Hey lady, get your kid out of the rain, the guy said to me. I'll put her in the next shot, but you got to get her out of here.

Hey, I yelled back, how bout you use your camera, and I'll parent my kids.

What a complete ass, I thought at the time, judging me. I was trying to bring five kids, and an exchange student to see the sights of NYC, which by the way, was very hard work,not to mention an expensive sacrifice, and now this asshole, who spends his days undoubtedly shooting meaningless celebrity interviews was judging me, and telling me how to parent. I don't think so.

In any case, I wondered what he had to say about all these kids sleeping on the sidewalk of nyc. Standing in the hot sun for two days? I wondered did he boycott his work that day, or did he stick around and take the shots, and make the big bucks, and go back to his hole feeling super superior.

Okay, sorry for the tangent, again. Clearly, I have add.

Anyway, I promised we would leave for the show around six am, an hour before it begins. Needless to say, we could barely make it around the block. We were able to stand across the street, behind the stage, and Isabelle did catch a glimpse of Miley. My mom, Tashi and I stood further away, so Tashi could move about and was not shoved in the crowd, and quite by accident, my mom and Tasha were actually featured on t.v. Go figure. Isabelle, who is five and does want to be on tv, was none to happy about her sisters television debut, but accepted it as part and parcel of going to the concert.

After thirty minutes of Miley, the largest today show concert series crowd ever began to break up, and I heard many kids complaining about all the waiting, the getting up early, because they barely could even see the celeb. This is where being five is a godsend, because in Isabelle's five years of experience she has never been to a concert before. She didn't know what to expect, and so sans expectations, she was very happy with what she got. Life is what you make it.

As for me Miley, Hannah or whoever you are, don't take it personally, but I can actually wait to see you again. If there is a next time in person, it will be when I have a seat to see you, which will happen only if I can purchase reasonably priced concert tickets, i.e., they don't cost the same as the rent of my first apartment per ticket.

Other wise the next time we hang out, it will be on my couch, when I watch you on Disney channel with my little rock star wannabe.

Quitting nursing, like quitting smoking, but worse.

2008-07-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know that I promised my next post title would be, "Don't you want to do something to make your kids proud", but I have to preempt that story so that I can tell you about my weekend of weaning. And by my weekend of weaning, I mean my weekend of absolute excruciating torture.

As I write to you, my dear internet friends, my boobs are as hard as rocks- it is not pleasant.

My baby is nineteen months old, so I know that it is time to stop. Also, with the xanax, no breastfeeding- and as much as I love being mother earth, I gotta go in favor of sanity. Sorry, baby.

The choice, I will tell you, has not been an easy one. I am one of those weirdo moms who actually enjoyed nursing my children, all five of them. Unlike so many mothers that I have watched on A Baby Story, or Bringing home baby who have trouble or can't nurse, I was fortunate enough to be a natural at nursing. Even at nineteen when I brought my first baby home, who incidentally is turning 14 tomorrow, huge, gigantic gulp!!!!!!!, I immediately was able to nurse her with essentially no assistance. Moreover, unlike most breastfed babies, my newborns left the hospital actually having gained weight, which I am told is very unusual for breastfed babies. I have thought from time to time maybe I should be a lactation consultant.

Don't be too jealous, though, because breastfeeding hasn't been all roses for me. I had my share of blistered nipples, mastitis; but worst of all for me has always been the weaning. Because as I have said before I'm not really a type a, I was never in a huge rush to wean my children. I mean I didn't want them to be ridiculously old and nursing, but my first daughter was two before she completely stopped. The middle child, my younger son, stopped earliest, at nine months- middle kids always have it the toughest, because I got pregnant again. On average, I would say that they all nursed for about eighteen months.

Weaning has always been difficult for me because none of my children were eager to give it up. I have heard stories from other moms who say, oh, Johnny just lost interest. This never happened for me. I think, for my kids, I was their security object, their wooby, so to speak, and so the end of nursing was always traumatic- but typically more so for them than for me. With the other kids, I was usually really ready to stop, and also, I didn't have to stop immediately, because of medication, and so the gradual milk drying was quite so painful.

Going cold turkey, as I have been since Friday, however, hurts like hell. I am a stomach sleeper, so in addition to feeling like my chest is about to explode, I also have been having one heck of a time sleeping. Tylenol and ice packs have been my best source of relief- and yesterday, I think was the worst day, because the day before wasn't so bad, and today seems a little bit better- but yesterday, I literally felt like I could vomit from the pain. Not good.

On top of all of this, I am not so eager this time to stop nursing because this is my last baby. I know she is number five, and I should probably be way over it by now, but I'm not. Partly because I love little babies, and partly because the end of lactating makes me feel old, dried up a bit- put out to pasture. Silly maybe, but still, I'm having a bit of a moment.

Yesterday morning was especially hard because she was crying, I was in pain, and then I started to cry. It's hard to give up that bond, especially when you know there is no going back. Isabelle, my miniature psychologist, however was able to shed some light on the situation. Oh, if only I had her wisdom.

Aren't you going to give Tasha bubber anymore? she asks. I think secretly she is a bit delighted. After all, this cute little lady took her spot in the sunlight, displaced her as the youngest, and got to be on mommy all the time.

No, I say, clearing my thought, and trying to be brave.

Well, she says, think of all the new things that you are going to be able to do with your baby now. You can meet new mommy friends when Tasha makes new baby friends. You can buy new pretty sippy cups.

Then she says to Tasha, you are a big gull now. Now you are just like sissy.

I look at her. So cute, so wise, and I realize that my baby growing up to be just like her big sissy is really a good thing.

And once my boobs deflate, and return to normal, I think I'll treat myself to some new bras, the kind that don't snap down in the front, the kind the dream angels from Victoria's secret wear.

Better to look forward because looking back gets you no where.

Friday's Facts

2008-07-19T09:00:00.001-07:00

I'm changing my tune today and promise to be as many all smiles as I can be. Given my recent xanax prescription, this should be easier than I once thought, a couple of days ago, that it would be. God Bless mood medication.

Here are a few fun facts for Friday... I am running behind on essentially everything in my life- so I'm keeping it short and sweet, but nevertheless, I hope you enjoy.

#1 A couple of weeks ago, the delightful, inspiring, and seemingly super cheery wondermom, Mrs. Fussypants, asked me to contribute to her online magazine, "Blissfully Domestic". Now, those of you who know me, Moira, especially shhh, may be wondering, how can this be possible? Laurie is neither blissful nor domestic. Aha, but I do have multiple personalities, one which is sorta domestic, the other which can be downright blissful. Sooner or later, I knew my mania would come in handy. Fortunately, to avoid confusion, all of my personalities have agreed to share the same screen name, so you can find my articles on Blissfully Domestic under Laurie of the seven stories. When the magazine formerly relaunches, sometime in August, I will be formerly introduced as a new domestic diva. Until then, you can visit the site to read my first contribution, an announcement about the American Girl movie, Kit Kittredge.

#2 On Thursday night, I realized that my friend, Nicole, mentioned in my last post as my brother's possible new love interest (but I don't ask questions) is as crazy, if not crazier, than I am. It is always a welcome revelation to find someone who shares my level of insanity.
Those of you who read my post on the death of the turtle know what a weakened condition I was in that day. Because of the mass hysteria, I took the children to the pet store to calm them down and to look...I know that you are all laughing at me now- I can hear the cackling coming through the computer.
Anyway, they had these absolutely adorable lab puppies, all golden and soft with fat, full of life paws. Perfect for healing the broken heart of a mourning pet owner- but also very poopy, and chewy, and who would watch ours in two weeks while we go on vacation for two weeks. I was so proud of myself for coming to my sense, and we settled for an equally warm and fuzzy pet that requires much less maintenance- a piranhas. All...so cute. If I could find my damn digital camera, I'd post a picture,
At dinner, on Sunday night, the dinner I wrote about in the last post, I mentioned this to Nicole and her kids. I see her on Thursday, and she cursing me and berating me, and telling me its all my fault. I can't imagine what the problem, except I figure it involves my brother in one way or another.
What, I ask is all my fault? Apparently, out of boredom, old Nicole decided to take the boys, her boys, to the pet store, to look at the piranhas. She didn't believe a pet store would sell such a thing. Before, however, she was able to make it to the back of the store, she and the boys stumbled on two black, cocker spaniel mixes, a girl and a boy, brother and sister.
Yes, she bought them both- because she didn't want to split brother from sister- for $1000, plus supplies. Well, Nicole, I don't know anything about the condition of your health, but I think you are right on target about your finances. In fact, I feel my own wallet getting lighter just listening to you.

#3 Because, I have been so absent from blogging, I have sooooo many stories to tell. My next title, "Don't you want to do something to make your children proud?" is 100% true and a real humdinger and a doozy. Be sure to come back to the playground. And bring something to sit on because the equipment gets hot in the simmer, and I don't want you to burn your butt.

Love,
Laurie

I skinned my knee, but I'll be okay.

2008-07-15T09:43:00.000-07:00

So, I didn't literally skin my knee- but if anyone, anyone, anyone has been wondering where I've been the past week, the truth is I have been feeling a little bit low.
As I mentioned to you earlier, my daughter left last week, about this time, for California. She went with my mom and the two of them are to return today. They spent three nights in Disneyland and three nights at a resort in San Diego. I spoke with them this morning because I am picking them up from the airport tonight. Their plane is scheduled to arrive somewhere around midnight- perfect timing.
They had a really great time, even though their original plan was to stay with my pseudo Aunt and Uncle, really my mom's good friends, at their home in San Diego. They were going to go to Laguna and to LA, so that my star struck teenager could stalk stars. A couple days before they were supposed to leave, however, my cousin called to say that there was something wrong.

My Aunt's husband, not her daughter's real father, but the only real father she has ever known, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He is 69. I don't know what any one knows about pancreatic cancer, but being the hypochondriac that I am, I try to stay away from any health news that I can- but even still I knew that this was not good, and have subsequently heard life expectancy, after diagnosis, is typically counted in weeks. So the day before they left, I spent much of my day on travel websites trying to cobble together a new itinerary for them.

All the while, I started to think, and I was not thinking good thoughts. My mind, like a run away train, started to go down roads that made me very panicky and sad. I read an entire book in two days to try to get my mind refocused. I rented a movie, feast of love, which the cover said was soul uplifting, that was so sad, it made me feel worse, which I did not think was possible. Over and over again, I was thinking how life draws us in, tricks us into making plans, having dreams, achieving goals, and then right when we are least expecting it, it pulls the rug right out from under us. The catch 22 is that the only way to "get over" having the rug removed is to be lured back into living, which at some point will result in the same ending, leaving us right back where we started from. I wondered isn't that the definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result. Is living really the process of going insane? I started obsessing and hyperventilating, and well questioning, once again, what this life really is all about?
Sunday night, my brother invited us over for dinner, and after a couple glasses of wine and some laughs with him and our mutual friend, Nicole, who may or may not be his new love interest, my perspective started to change. Nicole is divorced and has two boys, who are the same age and go to the same school as my Aidan and Isabelle.
As the kids ran around and played, Nicole and I started to talk about paranoia, depression, and the fear of death in my brother's kitchen.
I had a premonition when I was sixteen that I would die when I was thirty six, she told me.
How old are you?
Thirty six, she said.
We both started to laugh uncontrollably. For some reason, these types of thoughts stop being scary and start sounding absurd and hilarious when shared with someone who can relate.
The thing is, she said, I am half way through, but I have been spending money like its my last year, so if I turn thirty seven, I'll be alive but broke.
Now we were really cracking up.
The kids came in and were prodding my brother and Mrs. Mullen to kiss.
Do you love each othah? Isabelle asked.
Are you going to get married? another voice questioned.
Of course, both my brother and Nicole laughed off these suggestions. I thought for a moment of my brother's ex girlfriend, Hannah. They dated for six years and broke up, at age 35, this past February. Needless to say, we thought that they would be married, that she would be part of our family. We shared many laughs and meals in that kitchen together, and now she is no longer a part of any of our lives. I am saddened by this, but also enjoying the new company. I'm not glad that she is gone, but without her leaving, I know these new people would not now be a part of our lives.
As I was thinking of all of this, I started to think about how life changes gradually from season to season. In the moment, so often, we think that what is, will always be, and then when it changes, we are so often stunned, shocked, disappointed, even depressed. Gradually as days pass somehow we create new comfort zones, new traditions, new always' that seem like they are not new, were never new. Every once in a while, we reflect back and remember the time before, and we may long for it for a moment, but at the same time, we realize that the now could not exist if the old did not change, and so in this way, somehow we are able to let go and move on...
I wish that I had some profound thing to say about the meaning of life, but really I don't. All I can think of is the line from Jerry Maguire spoken by the "late great sports agent", and mentor to Jerry Maguire, Dicky Fox. He said in the movie, regarding success, that "I loved my life, I loved my wife, and that is my kind of success." I may be paraphrasing, it's been a while since I've seen the movie. The point is, it may sound oversimplified, and I am guessing that if my old philosophy professors were to read this blog they would hang their heads in shame, but of all the things that I have heard about life, that probably makes the most sense.
So this week, I am trying to get back up on the horse. I am renewing my faith in life, and planning a bit more carefully to enjoy every moment, and to find success, as I define it. I am trying to breathe, and to have faith. I am trying not to focus on the sad, and hoping that my Uncle will find peace as he attempts to cope with his horrible disease.
Finally, I am promising to stop with all this depressing talk of death- and starting tomorrow, I will be back to administer the best medicine that I can. For now though, I hope that anyone reading this will send positive thoughts, prayers;etc. to my Uncle and his family- and if you have any extra to spare after that, I could use a few positive thoughts myself.

A trail of tears, and motherhood really is hard work.

2008-07-08T20:20:00.000-07:00

Anybody who underestimates the job that a mother, who stays home all day long to raise children, does should be shot, by firing squad. No questions asked, no fancy defense lawyers- even if the glove fits, we will not acquit, you know what I'm sayin'?

Today started off as what I would term a "normal" summer day, which means by nine am, chaos reigned in every corner of the house. My oldest daughter was preparing to go cross country to California with my mother on vacation, so in addition to the normal hullabaloo, we had packing dramatics.

First things first, she put all of the clothes she had washed on my bed. With two hours and fifteen minutes left until my mother was coming to pick her up for the airport, she wants to know, "do I have enough shorts?" I begin helping her fold, suggesting she make piles, matching things up- not that she can't, but she wants me to help.

I like this top with your white Capri pants, I say in an even tone.

You think that everything that I have to take is ugly don't you?

Apparently, in the latest version of the teen to English dictionary, the word like actually means hate and find ugly. When I was a teen like meant similar to, but that was a billion years ago. Clearly, I can no longer talk the talk. Since she is preparing to fly half way across the country, I just smile and say, "oh is that what you thought I meant", "no, no dear, I love all of your clothes. As the words slip out of my mouth, I realize those words could set off a ticking nuclear time bomb... and then, all of the sudden, tock. Everything. is. fine.

The thing is, you never know how these things called teenagers will react to certain things, like approval.

As the bewitching hour approached, and it was almost time for her to leave, I had to tell her 3,650,007 times to stop reading her yearbook and get in the shower! I didn't know why she was not doing this. I figured she was just procrastinating and practicing her favorite game of make mom crazy. This summer she is doing particularly well at this game, although her brothers and sisters are gaining on her lead.

My mom rang the door bell, twenty minutes early, of course, and naturally my daughter was not ready. This left the other kids with plenty of time to ask my mother a million times, why they could not go to California? Right as my mother was about to walk off into the sunset, and go to California alone, the oldest emerged from her room and stood at the top of the steps.

It's time to go! My mother says to her from the downstairs hallway.
Come on, I yell, what are you waiting for?
And then it happens- the floodgates open. The little kids are crying because they are not going, and they are going to miss grandma, and now the oldest is crying because she is afraid to fly, and the baby is crying because, she is super tired, but who in the world could ever take a nap in a house like this?
I see the tears in my oldest daughter's eyes and not only can I sympathize, since after all, I haven't been on a plane since early 2004, but I also feel guilty. I know that I have caused this fear. In a lot of ways, I think that I have been a good mom, but in teaching my children to brave and not fearful, maybe I have failed. This makes me sad, and inside, I, too, am a little scared. I think that she will be fine, but, of course, the truth is that you never know. Looking at her tear stained face, I realize that she knows this now. She is no longer the little girl that I can reassure just by laying aside of her and stroking her hair. She understands that the world is a dangerous place; that living is a hazardous occupation; that nothing is ever certain, for sure or forever- and this makes me saddest of all.
As a mother of five, one of the questions that I am asked most frequently is how do you do it? Now that question can be pointed at how I do many different things, but most often, I find that what parents of one or two children mean, when they ask me that question, is how do you not worry yourself to death over all your children? Most recently, I was talking with a friend of mine who is a mother of two boys. She was telling me about all the hospital trips she has made with her sons, and she seemed really to think her situation was fairly unusual. I could sympathize with her, and so I began to tell her my battle stories of er moments with my children. By the time, I was finished, she just looked at me in amazement and said, "I don't know how you are not out of your mind."
The truth is, of course, that most days, I am out of mind with the five kids, but in a good way. I am so busy with all of them that I can't get caught in my own mind and my own thoughts. Gone are the days, when I had one or two, and I would ponder the what ifs for hours and hours on end, until I was truly crazy. Strange as it may sound, having five kids has actually made me a lot more sane, if a lot less sober- if that makes sense?
Today, however, was an exception to the rule. After the oldest left, I didn't have much time to dwell on the sadness I mentioned above. There was lunch to make, and lunch to clean up. There was a nap to be given. Laundry, dishes and dinner needed to be started. The floor needed to be swept, and we were going to attempt a trip to the pool, which meant I had to: shower, shave, remove my toenail polish, what little there is left of it from the pedicure I had nearly two months ago, apply sunscreen, put bathing suits on, wash,dry and fold beach towels, and blow up a set of "swimmies".
Midway through this routine the phone rang, and it was another friend of mine on the phone that I hadn't talked to since school was out of session. It was a simple conversation of catch-up- how's your summer going? what are the kids up to? Are you ready for September?
The baby was sleeping, the boys were, presumably, getting swimsuits on, and Isabelle was dressed appropriately, as usual because she actually likes to change her clothes, when all of the sudden, and yet again, the water started to rise.
I am still on the phone when I hear the boys come crashing down the steps. They are both screaming, but I am not alarmed, initially. This happens, at least, three times a day. As the younger one opens his mouth, I figure that he is about to tell me how his older brother teased or hurt him, but instead the words, Checkers died, come out of his mouth.
I'm sorry, I tell my friend, but I have to go.
The two of you who read this blog may remember my story of Jeff the frog and how he met his demise earlier this spring. That was sad, but the death of Checkers was catastrophic. Checkers, our found baby snapper turtle, was a real pet.
My older son, who is ten, is very philosophical and also somewhat of a pessimist,and again I am to blame for both of these things, and so again I feel guilty. This turtle was "his". He found it at the creek- its mother was dead next to it, and he brought it home a couple of months ago to save it. I knew that he really liked it, but I didn't know to what extent he loved this animal.
As he and his brother sobbed uncontrollably, I did, however, begin to understand. "Checkers was like my best friend, I could tell him all of my secrets", he said, in broken breaths.
It reminded me of the summer when my cat Pumpkin died, right after she gave birth to a litter of six kittens. She didn't die in child birth, but on her first trip back outside after having her kittens, she got hit by a car crossing the road. I loved that cat. I used to lay her down to sleep at night in a little cat bed and she would stay. I bought her with my own money that I had made at my mom's yard sale.
The morning after she was killed by a car, I knew nothing of her death. I was outside calling her, because I knew that she must be around somewhere. My dad soon came and told me the news. Both my brother and I were so sad. My mom's reaction was that she was "just a cat". Needless to say, this did not make me feel better. When a child's pet dies, I think that they mourn not just the loss of that life, but the loss of life in general. They mourn what it means to be mortal; they appreciate for real what death means, and they come to understand that all of life's surprises are not sweet.
I thought of all of this as I watched my son bury his tiny turtle tonight. I wanted to pull him away as he held it up to his face. The germs, ughhhh!!!! but I knew it was more important to let him have his moment. I let him lay with me tonight, and I tried to cheer him up. We watched a movie in my bed and I even let him drink a Sprite- but nothing made him smile. "I think I'm going to be depressed for a while, mom", he said.
Any moment now, my daughter will land safely in California, and I know that she will have a great vacation. Some time tomorrow, my son will laugh, in spite of himself, at some ridiculous cartoon, or bodily function, or quite possibly, at his brother or sister. We will all go on from this day, and maybe even forget it. Tonight, however, I realize, that as my children grow up and realize the truth about this world and this life, they will feel sorrow and pain and sadness that I will not be able to heal. Even the noise of five kids can not distract me from this reality.

Motherhood becomes a lot tougher when mommy can't just make it all better. It as if some of my magic is wearing away, and all I have left to give is my wish, that if I could, I would, make everything better, always and forever-and I hope that is enough. And I hope that tomorrow is a better day, and that I lose my mind again in the chaos of raising children so that I don't really go crazy.

My little firecracker is turning seven!

2008-07-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

Seven years ago tonight at around this time, it is now ten minutes until eleven, I was falling asleep to the television, flanked, on either side, by children. I was 391/2 weeks pregnant, and had earlier that afternoon resolved that, by no means, would I again leave the house, unless I was going to hospital to have my baby. I was having trouble falling asleep. I was having contractions, but I knew that this meant nothing; it never meant anything. Both of my children that I was sleeping with that night had come into the world with the help of pitocin. I had twice been induced, as I was certain I would be with baby number three. I was at the Doctor's mercy now. I could contract and contract night and day, and it would never go anywhere, until the Doctor would decide enough of all of this, and let's get on with it- but who knew when that would be?

It was a Sunday night, the conclusion of what seemed to be the longest weekend of my life. It all started on Friday morning. I was pushing myself to get through the week, and I wasn't doing well. I had a six year old, and a three year old who wanted to spend every waking moment at my Aunt's house, which was next door to our house at the time, because she had a pool. Sounds like the life doesn't it? Except that the three year old was a crazy boy who couldn't swim and so I would have to constantly chase him around the pool, and sit on the edge, and from time to time, actually get in the pool with him. This was not a pretty sight. I was not happy about any of it. I was a freaking whale, and I felt like I could barely move, much less chase two little kids in the hot summer sun all day long. If only I would have the baby...

The baby was supposed to be early, according to the doctor, who examined me at thirty six weeks and said, "Oh, you'll never go full term, I'd be surprised if I don't see you in the hospital this week. Well, surprise, surprise, at thirty nine weeks and counting, I was still around. Which, by the way, on a side note, is the most obnoxious question anyone can ask of an extremely pregnant woman. Are you still around? Don't ever say this to pregnant woman. It is unnecessary cruelty.

At the beginning of the weekend, on Friday morning, however, I thought that end had arrived. Or the beginning. Whatever. I thought I was in true labor. Why, you ask? Because that little plug thing popped out, and within an hour, I was having hard contractions. My Aunt from next door came over. She is a nurse and the mother of five children. "Oh this has got to be it", she said. "I'll take the kids" and you call Mark.

As soon as she left, I did just that. My husband, however, has "thing" that makes him never believe that babies are going to come out.
"Oh", he said, without a change in tone, "that's good."
"Aren't you going to come home?", I said. "Well, what did the doctor say?"
"Well, I called you first."
"Well, call the doctor and then call me back."

I hung up the phone, dejected. What was his problem? Couldn't he tell I was in labor? This was the first sign, and because of my two prior inductions I had never seen this first sign before, but I knew this was it. I called the Doctor. They were as impressed as he was. "Call us when the contractions are five minutes apart." Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought, anybody who watched the Cosby show could say that.

The contractions were getting worse, until, they just sort of stopped. WTF????!!!
Oh, I had plenty of experience with false labor, but not after the first sign. The first sign had come. Who dared take it back? I WAS IN LABOR.

I fell asleep for about two hours, thinking I should rest in preparation for labor. Also, I was extremely tired because I'd had been having trouble sleeping from all the false labor pains. Every time I laid down, it would start. At that moment, however, it was stopped and I was so sleepy. Two hours later, I woke up and nothing. I was sooo depressed. I went to my Aunt's to get the kids.

She sympathized with my plight and offered me a barium enema in a fourth of July gift bag. She even offered to "help me" use it. I wondered if labor could be causing me to hallucinate. NO, the bag was real. I turned the kids and said, we have to go, Daddy is waiting. I was ready, but not that ready.

When Mark arrived home, he asked what are we going to do for dinner? I gave him a very mean look that conveyed the message, if you don't go and get some takeout right now I am going to kill you. This look involves a crinkled nose and narrowed eyes, in case you ever want to use a look to convey that same message. He left immediately. We ate Chinese and went to bed. And as I lay my head down on the pillow, it started again...

The next morning, I was again fine. My cousin, Jessica, came to take me out for Mexican food, which she swore worked when she had her girls. I was willing to try anything. After lunch, we spent the afternoon walking around a hot farmers market. I was lifting every watermelon in sight. A lovely farmer asked me if I'd like lie down with his cows and give birth because I looked ready. Again, I gave a look, but I think that it was lost on this gentlemen, who clearly was able to find entertainment in harassing a pregnant woman. If I had to guess, his ability to read a woman's face- not so good.

I came home. We went to dinner at my moms. She offered to go with me to take the kids to the movies. Since all "labor" had stopped, I figured, I'd go. I was better when I was out and not thinking about it. As soon as I sat in the movie chair, the contractions started, and this time, I was sure the time had come. By the time we left the theater, I was panting and my stomach was as hard as rock. Ten minutes later, I was back at home, and again, miraculously the contractions stopped. It seemed like a cruel joke.

And on the third day, I arose again. Sunday. The day of my cousin's graduation party. I did not want to go. I looked superfat, all of my clothes were ugly, I felt miserable, and the baby was never coming out, so why should I go out? Yes, I was starting to go insane. I was irrational and emotional, and hormonal, and I did not want to go to yet another swimming pool for an afternoon of point at the pregnant woman and laugh as she tries to corral a three year old monkey boy. I felt like the main attraction at some sick rodeo event.

There was a huge buffet, and though I was really nauseous and not hungry, Mark suggested I try to eat something. As I approached the buffet, one of my male cousins said, "look out, Laurie is going to eat everything." Such a sense of humor on that boy, and timing, impeccable. Again, another look, again a wasted effort.

On the way home, we passed the local dairy, and I told Mark I wanted ice cream. "We just left a picnic", he said. Ugly look number four actually makes a difference and we pull into the parking lot. What I want is a chocolate ice cream soda. I stand in the long line of people and an older lady approaches me. It is super hot this first day of July. It's probably like 95 degrees. Sympathetically, she looks at me and says, "this has to be the worst time to be pregnant." And now I'm done. I get my ice cream soda and we ride home.

After the kids are changed and occupied, I pull my husband aside and say, I am not leaving this house again until this baby is born. I don't care if its weeks or months, I will not leave. I am yelling this at him because, of course, this entire situation is his fault, in more ways than I can count, and I'm trying very hard to count them all. Calmly, he tells me I should go upstairs and lie down.

He comes up and puts American Pie on the dvd player in our bedroom. It does make feel a little better, and I figure that if I am going to be pregnant for the rest of my life, I may as well laugh, a little. After the movie, I take a bath and get ready for bed. Just as I am getting ready to doze, two sleepwalkers enter my room. "Mom, can I sleep with you?"

When Mark comes to bed, he puts the kids back in their own beds, but I don't know this because I am sound asleep. I am dreaming that I am back at my cousin's house and monkey boy is climbing in and out of the pool and no one will help me get him, but rather they are all sitting, staring, and laughing. Its hot, and where is Mark? I start swatting at him, in my dream, and in real life. The motion wakes me from my dream, and now I realize THIS IS IT. People ask how do you when its real. Oh, you know, because it hurts like a mother humhum.

"Mark, wake up, I am in labor!"
"You're not in labor", he says still asleep. Do you want me to get some Tylenol and I'll rub you back."

I am very annoyed. I jump out of bed, mumbling something about do I have to do everything myself, and my water breaks all over the floor. Alas, Mark awakens. Good morning, sleepyhead- its about 1am- call the doctor now! Call my mother before now! Let's go the hospital!

My mother comes, and even though I am writing on the kitchen floor, she asks Mark if he can turn the air conditioning down, give her the remote control, polish her toenails...again, I must take control of the situation. Everyone around me is a moron.

The hospital is five minutes away. We go to the admission desk in the er and they immediately call up to l&d for a wheelchair. In the delivery room, the nurse discovers I am 10 cm. No epidural. The doctor comes in and asks me how I am doing?

Oh, I'm fucking great. Natural childbirth is a dream come true for me.
HA!HA!HA!
I turn to Mark and tell him that I can't do it and he should take me home.
You'll be fine, just breathe.
I am delirious with pain. That breathing shit doesn't work, I say. That's a bunch of shit. Why do they waste people's time and money with that shit?
The nurse is stretching me with her fingers. I can feel her stretching me down under- its like she's rocking a boat as hard she can with a couple of fingers. Oh and by the way the boat happens to be my crotch. I want to sit further up and punch her in the face, but then I hear this baby cry, and the down under feels like the fat kid just got off its chest and it can breathe again.
Also, the kid that she handed me, pretty damn cute. Another little monkey boy....
On second thought, maybe I wouldn't be leaving the house again ever.
At least, I wasn't still pregnant.

BEWARE OF MONSTER DISEASE

2008-06-29T12:15:00.001-07:00

The following post is a public service announcement.

Ahh, summer time and the livin is (mostly) easy for moms and dads and kids. No school, no schedule; late nights spent catching lightning bugs are followed by days spent sleeping in and swimming.

As with every season, however, there are few extra "worries" a parent must have for their children in the summer. We have to check for ticks so that the kids don't get lime disease. We have to invest in vats of spf 70, to keep their skin from burning, and dozens of flotation devices to keep them from drowning in the pools, lakes, and oceans that we take them to visit to keep them cool.

Most moms and dads are aware of the dangers of summer, with one notable exception. Monster disease tends to manifest itself rather innocuously, at first, and so is rarely spotted in time. This incurable condition can only be outgrown, and this takes years. Managing it is difficult, if not impossible, and yet so few parents pay attention to the warning signs.

Summer time provides the perfect conditions for this disease to over take children. Long days spent at home under the same roof with one or both parents and siblings is often all it takes for a child this condition to spread. Experts advise that enrolling children in military, or other work-related, sleepover camps may be the best way to prevent your child(ren) from contracting this ugly disease.

If you notice your child developing any of the following symptoms, you should call a camp at once. This disease often affects "first"and only children around the age of nine; younger siblings, however tend to develop it much earlier on, and cases of monster disease have been seen in children as young as four.
*sharp tongue, off which phrases like, "do I have to", roll with ease.
*enlarging mouth, also known as "big mouth", in which the child constantly comments (negatively) on everything.
*pupil rolling that occurs frequently, and often after a child is asked to do something like "help".
*Vision impairment that affects the child's ability to see: what proper clothing looks like; what a clean room looks like; how amazingly cool their parents are; etc.
*Deafness, that comes and goes- i.e. the child may hear "who wants ice cream from the down the street, but can not hear his own mother shouting "stop that" from two inches away.

As the disease progresses, parents may notice their children developing:
* a seemingly uncontrollable urge to run in and out of the house compulsively all day long.
* repetitive speech, i.e. the child will not say "mom can I have a snack" once, but rather will in an almost robotic and highly agitating tone say over and over again, momcanIhaveasnackmomcanIhaveasnackmomcanIhaveasnack, until he gets what he wants.
* An insatiable appetite that disappears during regular mealtimes, but then instantly reappears, especially if the words "snack" or "desert" are mentioned.
* A constant desire to strike, wrestle and insult her siblings.

Prevention of this disease is imperative because if left unchecked, parents may likely be driven insane by their children affected by monster disease. Children with this disease are very difficult to deal with, and nearly impossible to be around. Children do usually outgrow this disease by about the age of 25, but by then it may be too late for their moms and dads.

For more information, consult your pediatrician. Know the warning signs. Practice prevention. Send the kids to sleep away camp for the summer.

The natives are restless....

2008-06-27T13:08:00.000-07:00

An addendum to the post below.

2008-06-25T18:38:00.000-07:00

Because I am a moron, essentially none of the links, other than those with http:// in front of them work. Please use these links instead to click on the blogs mentioned below.

1.http://mommastantrum@blogspot.com for Faith/ mommastantrum
2.http://cheasapeakeribbons.blogspot.com for Margie/ at Gunning it
3. http://southerndomesticgoddess.blogspot.com for Southern Domestic Goddess (in training)
4.http://lifeisshortpartakeinhappyhour.blogspot.com for Ann(ie) / Life is short, Partake in happy hour.
5.http://sugar-mommy.blogspot.com for Sugar Mommy
6. http://theschrammsjourney.blogspot.com for Amy/ Crazy, but the cool kind
7.http://fromtheplanetofjanet.blogspot.com for Janet/ fromtheplanetofjanet
8. http://blogonkevin.blospot.com for Kevin/ Always home, and uncool
9.http://managermom.blogspot.com for Manager Mom

I hope that a) everyone will now read the post below, b) everyone will return to this post to click on all of these fabulous blogs, and c) that when you all call me a moron, you will do it behind my back in low-toned voices.

A montage of memes titled "And this is why my house is a disaster"

2008-06-25T12:23:00.000-07:00

1.
2.

Prize winner, this is your prize.

Instead of spending my time cleaning my house while my dear mother has four of my five kids at her pool, I am making this montage of memes for your enjoyment. I seriously hope you all appreciate the sacrifices of clean socks, cooked meals, and sleeping on a sheetless bed that I am making.

Anyway, today I will be responding to one meme I was tagged for, one award I was given, thanks to faith, and one meme that was "open invitation" that I should had to participate in. This post has been a serious challenge for me given my low, low, low technological i.q. Please excuse pictures that may or may not be in the right places.

First and foremost, I was tagged by a fellow phillymomblogger, Margie G. for this meme. Margie is expecting her second baby any day and so I salute her for sending me this meme in her condition. She is a trooper, and she makes adorable things with ribbons i.e. hair goods. Margie- when I get my act together, I wll order from you. You stuff is super cute. You can find Margie at :http://cheasapeakeribbons.blogspot.com/

The meme originated over an idea that was prompted by the book written by Larry Smith & Rachel Fershleiser, Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure. It’s a compilation based on the story that Hemingway once bet ten dollars that he could sum up his life in six words. His words were, “For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.”

1. Write your own six word memoir.

2. Post it to your blog including a visual illustration if you would like.

3. Link to the person who tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blog sphere.Sarah's link is: http://freymoyerfamily.blogspot.com/2008/06/six-word-memoir.html

4. Tag 5 more blogs with links.5. Don’t forget to leave a comment in the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.So, here we go....my six word memoir:

Don't tell me, I look to young to have these...

can you guess what the word these refers to? If I had a nickel for every time I heard this, I'd be sitting on a beach in Maui sipping cosmos.
For this meme, I tag

1. My blog bff and running mate, Faith from mommastantrum.

2. Cassie, the new mom and southern domestic goddess (in training).

3. Ann(ie) my friend over at life is short, partake in happy hour. Need I say, bravo, Annie for your blog name.

4. She's just another manic mommy , who I have just discovered.

And last but not the person I dedicated my last post to
5.sugar mommy

And now, about the major award I have won. See it pictured above- it is picture #1, and it comes to me from my friend Faith over there at mommastantrum

Thanks again Faith. I'd like to make an acceptance speech, but maybe I should save that for another day, as the music is already playing and I have just gotten on stage. Anyway, as per the following rules:

• Choose 5 blogs deserving of this for their creativity, design & material.

• Each award should link to the giver of the award• Link to the Arte Y Pico blog (the woman who began this award.) If your Spanish is good enough to translate this all please do so.

• Post the Rules

I choose the following five bloggers to award:

1. My new neighbor and friend Amy from Crazy, but the cool kind because I love her photo collage blog header. Clearly, I do not possess the skill set to do the same, but maybe she will teach me, if I am really nice?!

2. The interplanetary diva, Janet, from the planet of janet because I'd like to land there for a little while.

3. manager mom because I think she could whip me into shape.
4. Kevin who is always home, and uncool because I'm always home and uncool too, and I need someone to hang out with.

5. And Margie, from gunning it, the ribbon lady who tagged me for the first meme in this post.

Finally, and if I don't mop my kitchen floor and the department of health comes over, manager mom, you will have to take the fall for me... I give you six random things, a meme I saw on manager mom's site, with an open invitation. I love the random and I just couldn't help myself but to participate. And now for my six random things....

1. Connect four is my favorite board game. No, I am not one of those moms who let's my kids win. I am that mom that rolls on her back, laughing diabolically, as I yet again defeat whatever child I am playing. Mature, I know.(picture 1)

2. Flowers look nice by a front door, but really they have to watered and plucked and who has time, when your writing useless information on the internet. Myself, I decorate the doorstep with muddy shoes ( picture 2)
3. Picture 3- the dirty baby. We must have a million dolls, but this is the one the baby wants to take all over America, so that it looks like she doesn't have any other toys and has to play with a doll that looks like it carries a communicable disease.

4. Q-tips- need I say more-these are fo sho my favorite health and beauty aid.

5. I don't know why, but I keep thinking about a movie called Amazon Women On the Moon. I haven't seen it in atleast 15 yrs, but I can't get the segment, where they have a mock game show called "bullshit or not" out of my head. I'm guessing this is why useful information, like where I put my car keys, refuses to hang around in my head.

6. Rainstorms bring brainstorms.

Case in point

During our last thunder storm, and evening without power,

Aidan asks, "How many years has the world been going on for?"

Ethan replies, " I don't know, but who do you think the geek in the corner is, counting the years."

Aidan says simply, "GOD". like duh.

It's not all about me- entirely, but believe you me, it is brutually honest

2008-06-23T06:45:00.000-07:00

I am so glad that I joined twitter because I have found so many new friends here in the blogosphere. Last week, while tweeting and perusing the blogs of my tweeps, I read so many lines and posts that I could relate to so well that a thought came across my mind, and yes it has been years...
Seriously, my thought was that one day a week, I would dedicate my post to talking about an issue raised in some one's else post, which I believe I have something remotely profound, or at least semi-intelligible, to say about. When I received a thank you email from http://sugar-mommy.blogspot.com/, I decided that this would in fact be a good idea. As it turns out, I actually have other things to talk about besides ridiculous 70's shows, what a moron I am, and how my kids are likely going to kill each other, and probably me, before the summer is over- not that I don't love talking about those things, because, of course, I obviously do.

The topic of sugar mommy's blog that caught my attention was depression and how it makes her feel, and I could seriously relate and I remembered how important it is to a depressed/anxious/panic stricken person to have someone say to them- you are not crazy, and I understand. Judging by all the other mommy bloggers entries and tweets about feeling blue, depressed, and swallowing xanax like smartees, I take it that sugar mommy and I are not alone.

Now I'm not a doctor nor will I attempt to play one on the internet. I do, however, speak from the other side of anxiety and depression, and I can tell anyone who is in its midst that things can get better. I'm not so sure that there is an instant cure-all, and I will tell you that my recovery involved everything from cognitive therapy, to prescription meds to reading self-help books. Also making friends and hearing that other people struggle with the same things that I struggle with was, perhaps, the biggest help. Isolation feeds depression and anxiety, and depression and anxiety fuel isolation.

What I am trying to say is here is my story- so to anyone out there struggling, you are not alone and it can get better.

As most of you who read this blog know, I became a mother and a wife, in that order, at the very young ages of 19 and 20, respectively. The immense responsibility associated with these jobs quickly brought my carefree and somewhat reckless lifestyle to a screeching halt. That coupled with the fact that I knew no one who was in my same place in life was very isolating. On top of all of that, I was living in a completely unfamiliar place, ten hours away from friends and family. All of these things combined like the winds of a hurricane to wreck my life and to render me the victim of disaster.

What was I depressed about? Well, mostly I was extremely anxious about life. I now had this person who was completely dependant upon me, who I loved more than anything in the world, and I became acutely aware of all of the things that could destroy us. Before I got pregnant, not as a part of any ridiculous pact, I assure you, I had this attitude that nothing bad could happen to me. I was your typical invincible teenager, and then I got pregnant, and had a child and I realized, in a hurry, all of the bad things that could, in fact, happen to me. There were so many. As I traced my life path in my mind, I convinced myself that not only could bad things happen to me, but that in a just world, bad things probably should happen to me. I deserved it. And yet all around me, it seemed innocent well-meaning people had their lives destroyed by chance. My cousin's husband was sick with incurable esophageal cancer, and was in his mid-thirties; my mom's friend's husband died suddenly in a car accident, two days before Christmas on his way to pick up a toy for his two year old daughter. Celebrities were not immune. Even Katie Couric's husband died suddenly from colon cancer.

And everything I read and watched made things worse. Suddenly, I realized that it was my responsibility to save myself and my daughter from lurking dangers. The only trouble was that I was so certain that I was dying from something or that she was dying from something, that I was absolutely terrified to go the doctor's. I didn't want to know, but the not knowing was worse. The panic would take over and I would be absolutely paralyzed by it. I would wonder why anyone wanted to live this life- so full of danger and sadness. I would finally go to the doctor or take my young daughter, and they would tell me that I/she was fine. You would think that this would make me feel better, but it wouldn't because then the guilt would set in and I would hate myself. I knew that I was ruining and wasting my life, but I simply couldn't help myself.

Also, everyone around me, who knew what was going on with me, mainly my family was annoyed with me,and could not understand what my problem was. When I returned to college, I made some friends, but none that I could really talk to about what was going on with me. Even if I could have talked to them, the truth was I really didn't want to. I didn't want to seem like a freak, more than I already did from being such a young wife and mother. Sometimes things would get better, but they would also get worse, and I spent so many days just trying to focus on the task at hand- but I was so distracted by my own mortality and I had this ever present feeling that one day, the illusion of my happy life would be destroyed by something totally out of the blue. To prepare myself, I decided rather than enjoy my life, I would remain hyper vigilant to protect myself and my family from harm. Of course, logically, I knew this was a ridiculous strategy, and it was exhausting, and depressing as hell.

Things really came to a head the week before I graduated from college. Even though, I had worked hard, and had two children while going to school to complete my degree in philosophy, I didn't believe I deserved to graduate. I knew something bad was looming around the corner. I went to a doctor, and she did not immediately reassure me that I was fine. Instead she ordered some tests which she cavalierly said would be back in a couple of weeks. I. flipped.out.completely!!!!!!!!!

My mom flew down to help out because I was almost to the point where I could not function and had to go to daily group therapy sessions at a local hospital. They put me on Prozac and also anti anxiety medicine. Within a couple of days, I was vomiting, numb and faint-but also a lot calmer. I still had to take final exams, but with Mom, even though she didn't understand or really sympathize, things were a lot more manageable because she helped with the house and kids. By the end of the week, I was able to go to graduation, to sit still and enjoy the day. I wasn't worried about the future, or about the danger of life, I was just enjoying the moment. I continued for a while with therapy and medication and I began to get better and better everyday.

My happy ending has not been without relapse. Childbirth, and I had three more kids after all of this, has always been a trigger for me. When my fourth baby Isabelle, was readmitted to the hospital at one week old with a blood cell disorder that caused her to develop jaundice that was only curable by a complete blood transfusion, I thought I would lose my mind. Again, I went back on meds. It took six months for the doctors to determine that she didn't have a genetic condition that made her sick, and without medication, I seriously would have been like the woman in Charlotte Perkins' short story, The Yellow Wallpaper, who incidentally, I believe I read was a character based on her own experience with post partum depression.

When my little girl was given a clean bill of health, and I felt I made it through that difficult time, I began to realize I could survive the uncertainty of life. Moreover, I began to realize that in life you have to enjoy the good moments while they last, because inevitably, bad moments will occur, and the only way to make it past those is to have a good perspective on life in general.

Of course, I still have bad days. Worries and panic still enter my mind, but now I tend to push them away. I am no longer hypervigilant, just cautiously optimistic. I believe in visualization and positive thoughts, and I don't worry that these theories seem flaky and aren't grounded in logic and reason because quite frankly, they make me feel better. And this life, whatever it means or is about, is much more tolerable and enjoyable, when I feel better.

To be brutally honest, Mrs. Flinger, it's 12:13a.m. Wednesday

2008-06-17T21:13:00.001-07:00

This post is for brutally honest Mondays, Mrs. Flinger's meme, which she actually didn't post this week until Tuesday.

I read about her wanting people to join in on twitter and didn't get around to putting this post together until 12:15 a.m. Wednesday. SO technically this whole post is a lie, and for brutally honest Monday, nonetheless. My mother would say that I ought to be ashamed of myself. Indeed, I am.

But what I wanted Mrs. Flinger to know is that I am actually a really good go to girl.

I'm always there for my friends, even those who never comment on my blog, even when I dutifully participate in their memes. I never hold grudges, and am always a good sport.

And while I'm not going to blogher- because well, I am afraid to fly, and would also be afraid to tell people that I'm leaving my kids for the week whilst I go pursue my blogging aspirations since almost no one I know (in the real world) knows that I blog, except for Moira and her husband Chaz, and my husband, who incidentally, never reads TG ( How's that for brutally honest?)- I am happy to post a picture so that Mrs. Flinger might perhaps remember me and leave me a little comment love.

Now I'm the one beggin'

Anyway, Mrs. Flinger, the picture above is of me at my brother's recent eighties party. I went as an eighties preppy, to a party in a bar, where some people, not part of the party, were not in costume- because that is how I roll.

On Father's Day, for a moment, I wonder is my husband actually a homicidal maniac...

2008-06-17T08:18:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I didn't so much really wonder that, but I did nearly enter heart failure when the door bell rang, and Ethan got up and looked out the door and said "Mom, it's the police"

Right before that, we were all sitting on my bed, except Daddy, who was unwinding alone and in peace on Father's Day, and I was cutting nails and cleaning ears in preparation to go out for Father's Day brunch. The oldest was still sleeping, and cuts her own nails and cleans her own ears.

After the mother's day debacle, when I had to coach soccer right before we went with my family out for mother's day dinner, and so my husband had to dress the kids, and Ethan arrived in Aidan's pants ( size 7slim, when he is size 10 slim), and Tasha was in a sleeveless dress with no sweater in 50 degree weather, and Isabelle had on mary janes without socks, which inevitably gave her a foot blister, and I had to forbid all of them from getting in the buffet line because they all looked ridiculous, I wanted to make sure that they looked spiffy so that my family would believe that they actually have clothes that fit them, and that they once in a while enter the world looking decent.

Anyway, when Ethan said the police were at the door, my heart jumped into my throat. I mean why do the police go to people's houses? Not for good reasons. My real first thought was that someone in my extended was dead on the side of the road and the police were at my door, because somehow, I was determined to be the next of kin.

My Dad and brother are both runners, and often run in our neighborhood. I'm thinking about Tim Russert anyway, and now the most plausible reason for the police being there is that my Dad has had a heart attack on the side of the road.

I make my husband answer the door because a) I'm too chicken, and b) it's 11:30 a.m. and I'm still in my nightgown- and the whole plan is for us to look decent to society today.

Within seconds of the door opening, I hear my husband chuckling, so I know everything must be ok. I peek out of the bedroom door, and my husband asks if any of the kids were playing with the phone.

Now, I feel like a fool, because, of course, I was letting Tasha, the baby, play with the phone on the floor while cutting the other kids nails. She quickly knocked it off the hook, and I didn't bother to hang it back up because I thought better for her to play with it off the hook than on. This would have been a great plan had before she knocked it off the hook, she hadn't dialed 911.

Unfortunately, since she did first dial 911 before knocking the phone off the hook, and so the police were trying and trying to call us back to see if, in fact, we had emergency. Since they could not get through to us, they had to send someone out.

Aidan and Ethan were wrestling earlier that morning and I had just explained to them how they could get in big trouble if they hurt one another. Aidan, who is only six, thought the police had come for him since he hit his brother. He curled up in a cocoon in my bed and sobbed uncontrollably. All of the other kids, who went out and said hi to the police officer tried to coax him out, telling him the police officer was not here for him, but he was having nothing of it. If anything good comes of this, MAYBE, he'll think next time before he punches his brother, but I doubt it.

After profusely apologizing, we did manage to get ready for brunch and we all looked presentable.

If ever I have my doubts about writing or blogging, I just look and my life and know that its absurdity HAS to have some meaning- otherwise, most days would just seem like a cruel, cruel joke.

RAY, THE F---KING ZOO IS CLOSED

2008-06-12T20:52:00.000-07:00

I hope that some of you, offended by the f-bomb, will pardon my language and remember this quote from Jerry Maguire fondly as you listen to the saga that was my day today...

Remember, little Johnathan Lipnicki (scary that I can remember his name) asked Tom Cruise to take him to the zoo- but it was night time, and Tom Cruise was drunk and nursing a black eye and had just dumped fiance Kelly Preston because she called him a loser- so he said simply, Ray the fucking zoo is closed, and Ray said, "you're not supposed to say Fuck"

I am sorry if I have offended anyone, but immediately this is what ran through my head when I pulled up at the zoo parking lot, after an hour drive with four kids in city traffic to get to the zoo, and was told that the zoo was closed for the day.

The zoo is closed three times a year. Christmas Day. New Year's Day. And, ohbytheway, the second Thursday in June. How could I not know? Didn't we just finish decorating the second Thursday in June tree? Didn't I just spend tons of time buying the second Thursday in June Christmas gifts.

This, people, is why I am not type a personality. Type A personalities plan perfectly and their plans roll smoothly along. I tried so hard to be organized. Even had the girls dressed in matching giraffe dresses so they would look zooish. Packed sandwiches and strawberries and salsa and chips in a cooler, so that we could have a picnic lunch. Even bought tickets in advance at triple A, to save time and a couple of bucks. Well, at least now we have tickets for another day. You might think the people at Triple A would have advised me that today was one of the three days of the year the zoo was closed?! But then, again, I guess I should have known.

But this is where my laid back, roll with the punches, differently organized personality comes into play. No need to call social services- I did not drop the f-bomb in front of my children, who were reeling from the news that the zoo was closed. I was on a major city street, unsure of which way to go, traffic coming at me from every angle,but I simply pulled over.

After a brief caucus on what other city attraction we would visit, it was decided that we would head to the aquarium. Thank God for the GPS because with my sense of direction, we'd still b in the city.

As you can see above, I found many glorious creatures of the sea including: a shark boy,two mermaid princesses, and one sea monster.

Reflections on eighth grade graduation

2008-06-11T19:59:00.000-07:00

Eighth grade graduation.

Some people think it is stupid, overindulgent, unnecessary, and just plain silly.

What do you get with an eighth grade degree, anyway? Only to go to high school, which is basically a necessity if you want to exist in this world. Right?

I wasn't sure how I felt about eighth grade graduation until my daughter graduated from eighth grade last week, even though, once upon a time, I participated in the same hoopla and fanfare as an eighth grader. But back then, I didn't think as much as I just did.

So now, as an adult, I would have to decide, in favor or not.

I vote in favor, and this is why:

The celebration of the completion of eighth grade is a celebration of the educational process, pure and simple. It is not about where you will you to college, or what job you will get with your degree. It is about celebrating growing and changing and learning and becoming, and those things, I believe, are the most organic fruits of the learning process.

I know many parents disagree with me. Maybe not even consciously, but still they disagree. They want their children to achieve, to be, to produce, to excel, to bring glory and honor upon themselves and by extension upon their families. I'm not saying that those things are not nice- because they sure are. Heck, in a perfect world, I'd love for my kids to all be valedictorians, most valuable players, stars of the stage, loved by all. Who wouldn't?

But the inherent value of my child is not dependent on her being any of those things. To me, my children truly are special and wonderful and valuable by virtue of being my children. Each and everyday that they wake up in the morning and go and out into the world and try to make their way in this crazy life, I am absolutely proud of them. Granted, some days are better than others; and some days I take for granted how magnificent their efforts to become their own people really are.

I guess that's why I am in favor of eighth grade graduation. It forces a parent to reflect on how truly amazing their child's journey in this life really is; and it makes a mom pause, if just for a moment, to remember when; and to reflect on how that child got from point a to point b; and to dream of a future for her child, a million times brighter than her own.

And she looks gorgeous in the dress, I think- of course, I am her mom.

IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL (YIPPEE, KAY YEAH, MFS YIPPEE KAY YEAH)

2008-06-10T20:37:00.000-07:00

And to think I once thought that song was cute, in a schmaltzy sort of, were all in this together, cum bay ya, hands across America, brotherly love, bullshit way.

And then again, I was at the pool. A place that I should clearly stop going to. When, oh when will I learn that nothing good ever comes of me trying to be a proper parent? I should just stick to serving them sugar and letting them play video games all day long while I sit in a robe, hair in curlers, smoking cigarettes and talking on the phone all day? Honestly, life would be a lot less agonizing.

But no. I decide to go to the pool. According to my husband, this is not hard work, but clearly he does not know. He can dress for the pool in 2.5 seconds. Slip on swim shorts and he is done. Anyone who has seen the sex in the city movie will recall Miranda's pool faux pas. I'm not one of the psychos who shaves my legs all winter long every day in the shower. For God sake, if I'm in the shower everyday, it's a miracle.

Then I have to get the children ready. This involves me saying get your swimsuits on, overandover again, until I am hoarse, or blue in the face, or both. Then we have to pack the pool bag. Towels do not dry and fold themselves from day to day, nor do swimsuits, t-shirts;etc.

We need clothes to change into afterwards, or at least a dry t-shirt and underwear. We need sunscreen, swim goggles, pool toys, diapers, snacks, the car keys, and everyone needs shoes on their feet.

As I said before, its a major effort. I make this effort, and into the pool we go, where a woman, who taught my brother in hs is sitting by the baby pool with her two children, who are younger than my four oldest children, despite the fact that she is about eight to ten years older than I am.

I have seen her at the pool before, and we have spoken, but only as strangers, not as acquaintances from a past life. I am hoping that we can keep it this way, but almost immediately, I see that we are going to go down the road less traveled.

Are you Jake and Joe's sister? She asks me right off the bat. She knows that I recognize her, so no need for easing into the conversation.

I breathe in, as if I am boarding a roller coaster car. I hope the drop off peak isn't really high.

No, they are my cousins. I tell her my brother's name. She remembers him, but did not know him as well as she knew my cousins, who were more into music, since she is a music teacher.

She begins to explain to me more about who she is. Now normally, I would just go along and play stupid, but since she has already recognized me as who I am, I figure I may as well put my cards on the table. Yes, I know who you are I say, because I used to date soandso. Soandso, my longtime serious hs boyfriend was a musician and was also her student. At the time, she was a young teacher, and he was eighteen. So, of course, they had a friendly relationship, and of course, I knew who she was. In fact, in my previous life, I had met her many times at various performances that soandso was in.

Now I don't like to mention soandso, at all. Let's just say, he turned out to be a real asshole. And when I say real asshole, I mean it. Things that happened between us essentially altered the entire course of my life, and not necessarily for the better. Because he was the guy, he was relatively unscathed, at the time, but up until my meeting with this ex-teacher at the pool, I liked to think of him, on the rare occasion that I would even think of him, as struggling somewhere to survive. Maybe collecting coins in the subway, or selling his plasma to pay his rent in some broken down apartment building that was crawling with roaches or rats, or ideally both. I know this is healthy and not bitter of me, but what can I say, that's just how I am.

Unfortunately, when I mentioned this to this ex-teacher of his, she began to tell me all about what he is doing now. I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and say lalalala, so that my vision of him would not be shattered, but I figured maybe my hopes and dreams for him actually came true. I thought things were going as planned when she opened with... He never did graduate from college, but when she told me, it didn't hinder him professionally, I knew it was trouble.

She mentioned something about him working in the field of music, which basically amounts to the fact that he is living his dream. He has even worked with Stevie Wonder, she tells me, and now I want to vomit. I want to blow big chunks into a padded Manila envelope and mail it to him with Stevie Wonder's name in the return address spot. Is that wrong?

When I came home I couldn't resist the urge to google him. My friend, Moira, wink wink, (how do you like that pseudonym) who has recently told me that my blog would be infinitely better if I mentioned her more often, so here you go Moira, told me that she found my blog via google, so I figured, if she could find me, I could find him. Within minutes, I was staring at a picture of him in a fucking ugly as shit red velvet blazer, standing next to Stevie Wonder. Incidentally, since he is a con-artist in my mind, (and don't tell me people change because that is bull shit) isn't it possible, since Stevie is blind and all, that he simply impersonated someone and then quickly had his picture taken, emailed it to every school he ever attended, and made up some bull shit about him "working" with Stevie Wonder. Maybe it's a cardboard cut-out, or better yet maybe it's the miracle of photo shop. Anyway, I'm not as naive as I used to be.

What I'm wondering now, however, is why the fuck I never really took to heart Thomas Woolf's claim that "you can't go home again." I mean for fuck's sake cliches become cliche for a reason, because they are true. That bastard is off living his dream and working with Stevie Wonder, and I ' m sitting at the pool with my five kids, being interrogated by a woman who was his teacher in hs, and who still obviously keeps in touch with him.

Is this your nanny, she asks me about my oldest daughter. No, I say smiling, this is my daughter(the one that I managed to raise and graduate from college while doing so, not that I' m working with Stevie wonder, or anyone else, for that matter) Now, I imagine, this teacher scurried home to email my famous by association ass of an ex boyfriend to tell him, that while he is working with Stevie Wonder, I am sitting poolside with my five children, one who she mistook for my nanny, until she learned that my life had taken a tragic turn, and that despite my best efforts, I did become a teenage mother, after all.

There is no justice people. no. justice.

It truly is a small world, but that is no reason to slap on a stupid smile and sing the same verse of a song over and over again like some type of demonic energizer bunny. It is, however, a great reason not to move back home again to the small town where you grew up, and where not only does everybody know your name, they also know the names of all the people that you ever met, and all the details of all the relationships that you've had with those people. It's like living on a goddamn soap opera. Only without hair and makeup. Cum buy ya.

2008-06-10T20:17:00.000-07:00

PLAYGROUND MAINTENANCE

2008-06-08T18:19:00.000-07:00

After a long week of preparing for and attending my daughter's eighth grade graduation, I am back to blogging. This event took so much time and energy that it seemed as if we were preparing for her high school graduation or her wedding. Seriously, I spent more time looking with her for her dress than I did searching for my own wedding gown, but more about that whole thing this week.

But before I go any further with any of my "stories"....

Smiles everyone, smiles...

I want to announce that mommastantrum was the winner of my Fantasy Island contest.

She will be receiving the lovely gift basket above along with a dvd of the series.

Momma, it's on its way!!! If you haven't visited her blog yet, you really should. It always makes me laugh.

Also, thanks to Jen at listplanit. I won her pdf planner full of lists. I didn't even realize that I was entering a contest when I left her comment. What a nice surprise it was to learn that I was a winner! I'm never a winner- but apparently things in the blogosphere are a bit different than they are in the real world. I love the blogosphere!!

All of you differently organized, note I didn't say disorganized, people should seriously think about checking out listplanit. Jen, who is clearly not differently organized, has designed lists for everything. For someone like me who is "challenged" by organization, these lists, I think, will be really helpful. If I can remember to fill them out, that is.

Well, I'm off to watch Denise Richards, It's complicated. I haven't seen it yet, but given the title of the show, I'm willing to bet that the producer has a really good sense of humor. Having seen some previews, it seems to me as though everything, including how to make it through a sentence without saying Fuck, is complicated for Denise. But what I'm wondering is can you really subtitle a show, It's Complicated, just because the star is an absolute moron? I mean, I think it's kind of misleading to the general public, who believe the word complicated to mean that something is multidimensional, to imply that this woman's life is complicated. To a first grader, addition and learning to read can be complicated, but I don't know that it would be right to describe those things as being complicated in general. Like I said, I'm thinkin the producer is just a really funny guy. I guess I'll have to watch and see. I mean, I don't really have to watch, but I can't pass up a chance to watch someone make an absolute ass of themselves on National t.v.- what can I say, it's complicated.

Tommorow, I will be back with more stories. Until then...

ONLY SHE DIDN'T SAY FUDGE....

2008-06-02T05:51:00.000-07:00

So after Isabelle's graduation, a bunch of us moms decided to head over to the local park. It was supposed to be warm, but unfortunately, it was not only warm, it was as hot as blazes. There wasn't a breeze to be found, and by the time we left the park, we all felt, and probably smelled like hot garbage.

My friend, Liz, suggested that she and I take our kids to the pool that we both belong to for a cool down and an outdoor dinner. We agreed to meet after we both picked up the older kids at three thirty.

The pool that we belong to is a small pool and it is often heavily populated by other kids from our kids small school. Basically, our world is very small. A lot like smurf village, except none of us are blue. In any case, we arrive at the pool to find many familiar faces, which is not a bad thing, because it means the kids will have plenty of playmates, and will perhaps leave us alone for a few minutes. Except, I still have the baby, who is almost 18 months old, so my summer at the pool will basically be an aerobic workout. What can I say, at least, I can continue to convince myself that I don't need to join the gym.

Liz and I, and two other moms we are friends with, were sitting poolside when Kelly, a tall blond mom, who is mother to two girls who are in class with both Liz' s kids and my kids, screams across the concrete to Liz, calling her by the plural form of her last name. "Smith's", she yells out, apparently attempting to address the entire family- Liz is a mom of four- Do you know what Carson just said? Liz is looking at her blankly at this point, and none of us really know where she is going with this. She shakes her head no. Carson, she announces, from across the baby pool, just asked me what the F word meant, and she said that your daughter just said it to her.

Immediately, Liz jumped up from her chair. The other moms and I sort of stared, open mouthed as Liz scrambled to remedy the situation. Well which F word did she say? Liz asked. Was it possible that Kelly meant Fart, or even Freakin. No, it was not. Kelly made it clear, it was the F word.

The two walked towards the swing set, and Liz's oldest daughter, Caroline, who is eight, was promptly reprimanded.

Liz returned to her chair, clearly embarrassed, and making excuses for why Caroline said what she said. It's my fault, Liz said. She has, no doubt, heard me saying it.

I told her there was absolutely no reason for her to explain it to me, and that if I was horrified by any one's behavior, it was Kelly's and not hers, or her daughter's, who likely, did not even know what she was saying.

If there is anything that I have learned in my nearly fourteen years of being a parent, it is that your kids will do anything and everything they can to embarrass you. Most of the time, it won't even be on purpose, but nevertheless, they will make you look like the worst parent possible, whenever possible. Like the time that I took my son to the pediatrician last summer, and he told them that when we went to the pool, we didn't use sunscreen. He neglected to mention that we usually only went to the pool after five, because I didn't want the baby, who was very little last summer, out in the summer sun. Of course, I tried to explain myself, but at that point, what's the use? The mom who tries to explain herself always looks like a liar.

Knowing this fact about our children, and also knowing how tough a job being a mom is, we really have stick together as moms, and not call each other out in an attempt at public humiliation. Liz has had a really tough year. Her husband spent Christmas in rehab, and ever since he has been back, the two have been going to counseling trying to make things work, while raising four children. I'm not saying that what Caroline said was acceptable, or that Kelly shouldn't have told Liz, but really what was the reason for screaming it across the pool?

My grandfather, an Italian immigrant and father of seven, had a saying that pertained to raising children. "Don't spit in the sky", he used to say when someone would talk about someone else's child doing wrong. Of course, the implication is that when you spit in the sky, that spit is bound to come back down to earth and land in your face. You know the whole what goes up must come down theory. And take it from me, I have seen, first hand, so many times that this saying is true.

None of us wants our kids to curse, or do other embarrassing things that make us look like inadequate parents, but the truth is, at some point in time, most kids will do something to embarrass their parents. I've seen this happen to parents who are super strict as many times as I've seen it happen to parents who are more lax disciplinarians. Don't be fooled by supernanny. A chore chart and a routine do not cure all the evils of kiddom. Even the "best" of kids are sometimes to blame for bad behavior, and where two or three are gathered, such as in school or sports or at your local pool, trouble will often find them.

So the next time you witness somebody else's kid misbehaving, take a deep breath before you approach the parent, and put yourself in their shoes. Remember, you don't know what's going on the family, or why the child is misbehaving, or where they learned the bad behavior.

I'll never forget when my oldest was in second grade, the most prim and proper mother from school called me to tell me that my daughter had pushed her son. " We teach Mark not to hit girls, but we did tell him to defend himself."

I can remember feeling shock waves go through my body as she said these words to me.The incident happened at school, was handled at school, and I didn't think that she needed to call me on the phone and threaten me that my daughter would be injured, if she pushed her son again. I was so upset by the call, however, that naturally, I confronted my daughter when she came home from school. Why did you push Mark? I asked. I pushed him because he was digging his fork into my arm at lunch, she told me.

I am not the type of mother that believes every word my kids say. It's not that I think that my kids are liars, it's just that I know kids- they all lie. It's part of being kid and learning right from wrong. I decided I would go in and talk to the teacher. She verified my daughter's account of the incident. It took every ounce of self control for me not to call the mother back and say, hey by the way.

A few weeks later, however, when she came to my door to get some girl scout cookies, I said casually, as if it were no big deal, by the way remember how you told me that Sierra pushed Mark... I then told her how I'd spoken to the teacher, because no way would she believe my kid over hers. She was mortified. Her face turned bright red. Smugly, I said, well you know kids often don't tell the whole story.

So remember, the next time you are outraged by some other kids behavior, understand that it is simply a matter of time before your own kids will outrage some other mom. Treat the offenders as you would have the offenders treat you, if the shoe was on the other foot (and trust me, one day it will be on the other foot). Don't spit in the sky, because the law of gravity is one rule that can't be bent.

MAYDAY MAYDAY...THE KIDS ARE COMING, REPEAT KIDS ARE COMING !

2008-05-28T06:23:00.000-07:00

For all my high and mighty bitching about the end of school, taking the moral high road on teacher's gifts, and complaining about the # of days I am actually required to be in attendance at school towards the end, I am the first one to admit, I love me some school days.

And by school days, I do not mean school that would take place within the confines of my home. Oh hell no. That to me is torture. I'm not cut out to be a homeschooler, or for that matter a housewife, a cook, but I digress...

So anyway, this actually is my prek daughters last week o school. The other kids are done in the middle(two of them) and at the end(one of them) next week. Needless to say, I am having a massive panic attack, and wondering what will I do with all them everyday, all day?????????

Having five kids kinda makes camp cost prohibitive. And that is not to say that they won't go to camp at all. There are some community/church programs that offer camps at a nominal charge, although anything times four, baby is too young for camp, is expensive.

I am not above sending my children to religious camps for religions that I do not subscribe to. One summer, my friend, Holly, who went from a drinking realtor to a sober born again Christian extended my kids an invitation to her church summer camp. My kids are loosely raised as Catholics, and I knew that this was an attempt at conversion, but nevertheless, the camp was free and all I had to do was sign my name to a piece of paper. She transported them every evening for two weeks, from 6-9, and I had three hours of peace and quiet with my third child, who at the time was a newborn.

It did bother me a tad when my son came home singing a song "my heart was black as sin until the savior came in", but I rationalized this experience as a test of faith. None of my kids converted, so it was all in good fun.

Since Holly has since switched over to the Mennonite church, those camp invites have ended. I wonder if the Mennonites have camps? I can see my kids milking cows with somber faces dressed in plain clothes that they made themselves. Unfortunately, no invite has been extended, so at this point they're all mine for the summer.

So here are some of the strategies that I am working on this week in order to ensure that we will have a relatively smooth summer.

* I am printing out a calendar of June, July and August, and marking down any plans that we might have for any of these months. I know, you ladies probably already have this done, but I like to stay a little behind the eight ball. Then I will record any plans I make this week, even little plans like going for ice cream on the calendar. If I plan ahead, it will actually get done- that's theory behind why I will do this.

* I am surfing the web for local attractions and things to do. By doing this, I can see in advance what ticket prices will be and decide when and where we can go for fun outings. Since I now have a navigation system in my car, not built in- just one that you can stick up, I don't have to worry about printing out directions. But if you don't have this gadget, and like me you can't read a map or find your way to your front door in the am, you might want to print out this information as well. Do it this week, before the kids are home, and before the day that you are to leave. Days when we are going somewhere are always so hectic, so less prep work the better. So that you don't loose the directions, stick them in your glove compartment right now.

* I am amassing schedules for free activities, or nearly free activities. Look, I don't exactly live in a booming metropolis, hardly, but there are still plenty of things to do with the kids that cost little or are completely free. The local library and bookstores offer free story time. I let the older kids walk browse for books for themselves during this time. The movie theatre here has free summer movie camp every week. It shows two movies, one G and one PG, two mornings a week for the entire summer. I will get a schedule of what's playing so we can decide in advance who will see what. Also the craft stores have kids project days weekly, and they get to make seasonally appropriate crafts. They usually charge a nominal fee for materials, but the kids have a blast.

* I am searching for websites with great ideas. Today, I discovered the Crayola website. Since we don't live too far from the factory itself, and since tickets are only 9. per person, under three free, I am thinking this will be one place that I will take the kids. Anyway, while I was looking at the attraction, I also browsed the crayola.com website, only to discover that it has a lot of great projects and print outs on it. There is also an online store where you can order supplies. New customers receive 15% off.

So I am feeling a little bit better. Let's promise that we'll be in this together, and that by the end of June we won't be seeing yellow because our eyes are tricking us into thinking that there is a school bus in front of our house, waiting to take the kids away.

Also, if you have a great idea for how to spend summer days, please leave it in the comments. Laurie

SPEAK NOW, OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE...

2008-05-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

I have been talking a lot about the end of school recently because for me it really is a major event, and I'm sure that a lot of you can sympathize. All you angels who home school, what can I say except clearly, compared to you, I am absolutely inadequate- but really, is that news?

In any case, one of "rituals", at the end of school every year is that the a mom or two from each class attempt to organize a "class gift" from the students of the class to the teacher. In the years that my children have been going to this school ( my oldest has been there for eight years), this process has varied, with some things remaining constant. Generally speaking, what happens is that one or two moms get together, come up with what they believe is an appropriate amount for each family to contribute, decide what gift will be purchased with that money, typically it is a gift card or cards of some sort, and then they send out a typewritten letter to each family, which they put in your child's bookbag. You then can decide, whether to return the envelope with $$$ to contribute to the gift, or you can not contribute.

The gift. is. optional. In the same way that giving your mother-in-law a Christmas gift is optional.

The first year, I did not contribute. I wasn't very fond of my daughter's first grade teacher, who told me in the first few weeks of school, that no she could do nothing to prevent my daughter from being pushed on the playground by her classmate. This is private school people! My daughter was in a class of thirteen children. This woman had to watch thirteen children, and she couldn't, after the problem was brought to her attention, be bothered to maybe say, if I see anything, I will address it. No, instead, she said "there is nothing that I can do." Fabulous effort. And this was her attitude about everything. She was just nasty, never smiled, and so when they came a collecting for her gift, I declined to give. Instead I bought a five dollar coffee mug with candy, and even that pained me.

Of course, what I didn't know was that during class time, that I was paying for, some of the mothers organizing the gift came in and had the kids sign the card for this teacher. My child, naturally, was not allowed to sign the card, because I didn't contribute. Then they presented the gift to her, and of course, my child felt left out. All afternoon, I had to hear about how she was the only child in her class, and how she wasn't allowed to the sign the card, and all I could think was I should have just given the damn $15 bucks so that bitch could have a gourmet dinner and could buy some freakin books at Barnes and Noble.

From then on, I always gave. Not always happily, but I gave nonetheless. And most times, I gave double, because I subscribe to the notion that it should be a gift from MY CHILD to the teacher. I know teachers get a lot of shitty presents, things they don't want or need, but last time I checked people don't become teachers for the gifts. And I know that teachers are underpaid,and for this reason, they should be shown appreciation and gratitude, but is it my job to make up for their salary? I don't know.

This year, my daughter in pre-k got a letter asking for $50, which is double the normal amount per teacher. Granted it covers gifts for the teacher in her class, the teacher's aide in her class, and the teacher and aide in the other section. The aide in the other section is leaving, so she gets $20 allocated to her gift; while the others get $10. Why am I giving money to teachers who don't even teach my child? And should I be giving more money to the teacher's aide in the other class than I give to my own child's primary teacher? Why am I giving the same amount of money to my child's teacher that I am giving to the other teacher? To me, it doesn't make sense. Although the letter reads, " a consensus has been reached" , no mom that I have asked was asked about the gift prior to the letter being issued by one mom from one of the two sections. The letter goes
on to say, "here's the deal" it says, followed by "this is optional, but we hope that you can all help out."

I spoke to a couple of the other moms about this at Field day, and it became apparent that no one was willing to rock the boat, even if they felt $50 was a little much to ask. One mom said, well I guess you can always not give...

Well, as I said before, when I didn't give in First grade it was disastrous. Last week, there was also a lot of gossip surrounding a mom in the first grade who wanted everyone to contribute $5. "That is so cheap" another mother told me. That mom took the letters out of the bookbags when she found out the amount, and rewrote them, and then re packed them in the bookbags. I don't know, but it seems wrong to me that random mothers are rifling through bookbags of children who are not their own.

There are consequences to not giving.

So what's a mom to do. On the one hand, I feel this entire "gift" thing has absolutely gotten out of hand. Why should one mom tell every other mom how much to spend, on what, and for whom. When I went to Montessori school many moons ago, Teachers were not allowed to accept gifts. Not potted plants or boxes of candy. It was viewed as unethical. I am certainly of the belief that a potted plant, or even a combined gift of a dinner certificate is not out of the realm of appropriateness, but in one first grade class, a mother purchased a twelve hundred dollar bracelet for the group gift for the teacher , at a discount it came to 500, which wound up being 22 a family. Again, I think, personally, this is in bad taste, and not appropriate. And I have to question the motive of this woman making such an elaborate purchase for teacher, and I have to wonder is it reasonable that she make all the other parents contribute to this? Should the school step in and say that group gifts can not be organized in school, presented during school time ( by mothers, not by children), and that cards may not be passed around in the classroom unless every one can sign?

Should I shut my mouth again, pay my money, and thank god summer is here? Or should I CHOOSE not to pay in which case: my children will be pariahs; the teachers will think me cheap and ungrateful; and the other mommies will not talk to me on the playground? What's a girl to do?

On a side note, when did it become acceptable for people to be openly ungrateful about gifts. I mean I have no problem per se with registries, gifts cards; etc., but if Aunt Ethel wants to knit you a pot holder, or if you want your kid to help bake banana bread for her teacher's gift, shouldn't the recipient still be grateful? What's with all this, oh you can't buy anybody a present anymore for fear they won't like it. To me, a gift is about the thought, and if you really appreciate the person's thought, you'll appreciate the gift. You'll like what you don't like or you'll give the gift to someone else who will like it, happy in the knowledge that you were remembered, appreciated, loved. Gifts should be given and accepted freely, in my opinion, but I'd love to know what others think. Feel free to leave comments.

ONE CRAZY WEEK

2008-05-22T20:05:00.000-07:00

Haven't spent too much time writing posts this week. Trying to explore the blogosphere and lure new readers to the site. Also extremely busy with end of school. At the end of the year, its as if they start to prepare parents for summer by making them spend every waking moment with their kids at the school.

Here, my week in review:

Monday: a.m. was 10yr's guitar performance which was actually super cute, but also had to stay for some art dedication thing because it would have been rude to just walk out after I saw my own kid do his thing. Had to pretend I was renaissance mom, who just loves all things related to the school.

Tuesday: a.m. and p.m. went with daughter's preschool class to see Winnie the Pooh play, which was also cute, however, would liked to have been able to pass on the after play park trip. It was about 50 degrees and pouring rain. I was dressed for the theatre, and therefore did not have on knee high boots. Couldn't really understand the point of this stop. The kids couldn't play at the park, but could merely point at the playground equipment and say sadly, why can't we go on that? Under the pavilion, where we ate lunch, we all huddled together trying to steal the children's body heat so that we did not get hypothermia. The kids were freezing, teeth chattering, but as the teacher pointed out, it did get them out of the classroom. So would have a trip to the local nuclear reactor. Maybe that is on for next week?

Wednesday: a.m. 10 yr old had D.A.R.E. graduation and won a french award from a standardized french test he took. "I don't want to have a tube inside my stomach to feed me because I want to be able to go to places like Outback(steakhouse) and Longhorn's with my family, and that's why I won't do drugs". That's an actual line from his D.A.R.E. report. Whatever works, I'm proud.
p.m. was supposed to go back to school for an informational meeting about fifth grade, which 10yr old will be in next year. 5th grade is Upper school. Since my oldest has already been there done that, actually skipped this, but the other mommies drug me out for the after party to this meeting at a local bar. Maybe we mommies should have gone to the D.A.R.E class. Obviously, we learned nothing from our children's reports.

Today was my day off, but spent most of my time cleaning in preparation for my in laws who are coming tomorrow (yeah!!!!!!!!) to watch the kids while we go to a wedding. Also, my cousin, his wife and two kids came in today from Chicago, so went to visit them.

Friday: a.m. Field day. I have to go and get nails done for the wedding. My mother, who just returned from her cruise vacation, wants to know why I am not planning on going to field day. Don't the kids want you to come? Won't they be disappointed?
Perhaps I should just park my van in the school parking lot and sleep there, in case the school needs me in the middle of the night for something.
Of course, mom doesn't want to watch the baby while I go for manicure, she wants to get her nails done before her next vacation, which is less than 72 hours away, but I should be more available to my kids.
p.m. The drama play in which Isabelle, 5, will play a little dutch girl. Wouldn't miss it for the world.

I'd like to say that next week will better, but it probably will be worse. On the upside, am actually looking forward to kids coming home so that the madness will stop. It's a cruel mind trick. At the end of May having kids home all night and all day seems like such a great idea, but by the end of June, Moms everywhere will be wondering WTF was I thinking when I couldn't wait for the end of school?

F is for Fridays, and Fantasy Island

2008-05-16T12:20:00.000-07:00

*Don't know how to add clips yet, will learn soon I promise, but for now, please humor me and use your imagination.*

Good God almighty hope some of you are reading this masterpiece.

Cue the music....

Doo du du du doo du du dadu

High mountains, water falls, a seaplane, a bell, a little person with a french accent in a white suit, a tall dark, handsome man, with a dignified Puerto Rican accent, in a white suit...

"Bosth, De Plane, de plane"

Ah, yes. In my house, growing up, Friday nights meant Mom and Dad went out to dinner, we got a babysitter; Swanson t.v. dinners; filled with rubbery meat, powdered mashed potatoes, tasteless vegetables and the piece de resistance, chocolate cake, that typically had to be sawed off of the plastic tray in order to be eaten; and jiffy pop. It was late seventies and maybe early, early eighties, I was about ages four to six. Kids t.v. was not on at night, and vcrs did not exist. Yes, children, I did grow up in the prehistoric era. On Friday nights, we watched the Love Boat, and if we were still up Fantasy Island.

Last week, when I was out some girlfriends, I happened to mention that I was perusing through the guide on my t.v. and I saw at the bottom an ad that said, "watch Fantasy Island on tube time, on demand." Of course, I have not seen this show in decades. Fantasy Island isn't easy to find in reruns, and in fact, I probably haven't thought about watching this show in years, even though I remember it vividly, as a part of my childhood.

Now, when I mentioned this to some of my friends, I had already had several drinks. I am weird and I think under normal circumstances, I probably wouldn't have mentioned my finding Fantasy Island on t.v., not because I ashamed, no, I'm am open about my oddness, but because I probably wouldn't have thought that anyone else would be interested in my information. Much to my surprise, however, everyone was asking me for specific instructions as to how to find these episodes on t.v. Yes, their Fridays were very similar to mine. The Love Boat was all happy, good times, and then Fantasy Island scared the shit out of you right before you went to bed.

My friend Beth even mentioned the episode that I was permanently scarred by as the episode that she was permanently scarred by. "Remember the Jack the Ripper episode"... do I ever... it's part of one of my seven stories...

My cousin, Luann (those of you who have read my post, Sharks and Dwarfs, is it any wonder I am crazy? will remember my cousin Luann) was babysitting. She is deaf, but can read lips and speak well with her hearing aid, and so remained, as interested in watching t.v. while babysitting, as any normal teen. We had watched the Love Boat, all good and happy times, and then I wanted to have a bath. Luann was determined that my bath would not interrupt her viewing Fantasy Island. I was about four or five and had seen Fantasy Island enough times to know that I did not want to watch it, I was afraid. I also did not want to go to bed until my Mom and Dad came home, so I tried to linger in the tub. Luann turned off the water once the tub had about one inch of water in it.

"It's time to get out", she barked.

But I didn't want to get out, I wanted more water. That's when Luann scalded me with the hot bath water. Well, maybe she didn't exactly scald me, per se, but she did turn the water on hot, and when I moved up from the back of the tub and touched my toe to the new water, it did burn my toe and I screamed and, she said, "now are you ready to get out?" And so I climbed out of the back side of the tub, because the front side contained scalding hot water, this was in the time before people turned their hot water heaters down obviously, and I put my pajamas on and followed her down to watch Fantasy Island, because my only other option was to go bed by myself.

Maybe it wouldn't be a scary episode. Ha! It was the Jack the ripper episode. I pleaded with Luann to turn it off, but she absolutely wouldn't. I was scared shitless, and was paralyzed with fear. After only seeing seconds of the show, I was definitely too scared to leave the room, but I was also terrified to be in the room where I had to watch the show.

The next day, I was at my Aunt's house telling on my cousin, her daughter, when her older sister, who had to have been on drugs at the time, I mean I can't imagine a sober twenty year old telling a four year old what my cousin Sandy told me, said that I was silly to be afraid. She was studying to be actress at the time, and she said, "oh you shouldn't be afraid, that man is just an actor trying to make money to feed his family!"

I think on this and I wonder WTF my mom was thinking. Sometimes when she evaluates my babysitters or my choices as a mother, I remind her of this story, and she just stares blankly ahead, pretending that she can't hear me.

In any case, you would think I would never want to see this show ever again, after hearing that story. Not so, though, for a couple of reasons. First, fantasy Island also reminds me of the many happy Friday nights that I spent safely inside my house, in the rec room eating my t.v. dinner that my mother would have let me pick out earlier in the day at shop rite, and later watching the jiffy pop erupt on my stove, before my brother and I would snuggle down on the couch under an afghan to watch the love boat and fantasy Island. Not all of our babysitters were evil, and sometimes even our mom and dad would be home on Friday, usually if they had plans to go out on a Saturday,and we watch these shows with them, secure in the knowledge that with Mom and Dad, nothing could hurt us. Second, one of the greatest pleasures of being an adult is being able to go back to things that you feared when you were a child and laugh at them, because, in fact, they are not really scary at all. Doing this makes your mind feel all balanced, like a reconciled checkbook.

So finding Fantasy Island on t.v. again has, for me, been like uncovering an old scrapbook full of childhood mementos. Since so many of my friends also have fond memories of Mr. Rourke saying "Welcome to Fantasy Island" in his debonair accent and stylish yet slimy white suit; and since we all want to watch and realize how truly not scary, and actually cheesy the show was, I decided that I would host "A fantasy Island" slumber party of sorts at my house. A girls night in. A night of t.v. dinners, jiffy pop, and a tray full of island drinks adorned with flowers and laced with a lot of liquor.

I have yet to set the date for the party, and am still working on the details, but I thought it would be fun to also hold a contest on my blog with this theme. I have put together a Fantasy Island prize pack, and I will pick a winner from comments to this post next Friday. Let me know what your fav. episode was, or if you have watched recently, or about any memories of Swanson dinners, jiffy pop, Mr. Rourke, tattoo ;etc.;etc.

Have a great weekend!

Laurie

I interrupt my regularly scheduled programming to bring you this important news...

2008-05-14T08:58:00.001-07:00

I am sorry to say that Jeff, the 2cm frog died yesterday in the aquarium.

Jeff was Aidan's frog (Aidan is six) that lived in Ethan's tank (Ethan is ten).

I am upstairs, supposed to be putting laundry away, but the draw of the computer is too much. Just want to check my email for one second, when I hear Aidan frantically screaming "Mom, mom, where are you?"

Due the decibel of scream, I figure someone is either dead or very near death. I leap up to run to the rescue, and greet Aidan in the hallway of my bedroom. His little white face all red, and ruddy, and runny with tears and snot.

"Aidan", I say, "what is the matter?"

"Jeff diiiied", he says and on the word died, he completely collapses into a teary tantrum. Poor little soul, he is heartbroken, and so I call in Ethan for verification.

Ethan, my little crocodile hunter in the making, comes down, fish net in hand, and starts to detail how he found Jeff dismembered in the tank. "His eyeballs are out, and his head skeleton..."

"Okay, Ethan, enough" , I say putting my free hand up, as I hold Aidan to my chest.

"Aidan, Ethan asks sweetly, why does death bring out the best in us?, do you want to come flush him with me?"

Sobbing hysterically, Aidan says no. I can't get him to stop crying, and so I decide we will make an impromptu trip to Petco, where we wind up buying a little five dollar tank, in addition to two new frogs, because according the sales girl, these little frogs sometimes can't get enough air or food in a large aquarium.

I call my husband from the car to tell him where we are. So much for it taking fifteen minutes. Sierra, the thirteen year old, wants to know, can she get a dog like Lauren from the Hills? What would she have to do? Ethan wants a bull frog. Isabelle wants a cat, even though we already have two at home; and Tasha and I really like the parakeets. To top it off, we get in line behind some wacko buying a ferret. She is letting it crawl all over her shoulders, and telling it about its brothers and sisters at home. Of course, she is writing a check. The trip has now taken over an hour, and that's just the time that we have been in the store.

So I call my husband to ask him if he wants to cook or if I should just get take out. He agrees to cook, and asks me why I rushed out to get him a new frog- shouldn't I be teaching him that this is what happens in life. "You're a softee he says to me".

The truth is though, I am not at all bothered by this label. Yes, there was a moment on the way to the store where I thought, am I handling this situation properly? But it was only a moment, and the answer that came to my head was yes, I am.

In my earlier years, I might have been filled with more self-doubt, might have questioned myself a bit more, but now I know. Moms can't fix everything. Even if Ethan deserves to be on the travel soccer team, or Sierra should have the lead in the play, there is nothing that I can do, or nothing that I am willing to do. Those are the lessons of the life that they must learn. I can't force kids to invite them over to their houses,can't make them the most popular, the richest, the smartest, the most athletic. They all do just fine in their own right, but their little lives aren't perfect, and you know who it's hardest on- Mom.

As a mother, there are so many times that you just want to step in and fix everything, and make their lives like a day at Disney World, but then you realize that you have to resist for their own good, and sometimes it seems as if doing so could kill you. So when you can be a superhero simply by driving to Petco and purchasing two little two dollar frogs- well it's awfully to resist, because what is the harm?

By the way, was going to write today about either naming your baby, in reference again to a post by her bad mother (seriously am not stalking you, but your posts keep making me have flashbacks), or about my BF who turned into an F'ing B ( crazy how that term turns around just like so many BF's turn into F'ing Bs), or about the Fantasy Island sleepover party that I am planning (yes, I am serious, yes, there something wrong with me, and yes I actually know people who are not only willing, but excited to come.)

Well, two weeks are up, so I have to go and clean for the cleaning ladies (another post I promise to write soon) Thanks for stopping by, come back again- Laurie

You look too old, so how do you like that?

2008-05-13T07:17:00.000-07:00

It's not everyday that someone tells me that I "look too young" to have five kids, or that I "look too young" to have a teenage daughter, but I would say, at least once or twice a week, someone, somewhere tells me this in some way or another. That number is ,of course, way down from a decade ago, when I was twenty three ,and the mother of one four year old, and one infant, but I still consistently hear comments like this.

In part, I guess, I do look younger than I am. In fact, on a recent vacation some woman told me that I looked eighteen, which at this point, is nearly half my age. I don't personally think that I look that young, but maybe, I do look a little younger than I am. Some woman at McDonald's, who was stunned when I told her my baby wasn't my first, but my fifth, guessed that I was twenty- three. She was twenty five herself and was obviously impressed by my youthful look and not trying to be passively nasty, so I told her thank you, and asked her for all her contact info, so that we can be best friends.

For every one person who means the phrase "you look so young, or you look too young" as a complement, there are ten people who are trying to be nasty. How do I know? I am not an idiot. I can hear it in their tone, see it in their faces, sense it from the air that they give off. Most recently, a mother in my oldest daughter's class saw me at school and said, "oh, you look too young", I didn't even see YOU there, I thought that you were one of the kids.

This woman has known me now for over eight years. For the most part, up until this point, our contact has been friendly. On this particular instance, I chose to sort of ignore her comment. I am fairly certain that she knows approximately how old I am. If she doesn't think that I am old enough to be my oldest daughter's mother at this point, well, what I can tell her? Not too many people want to adopt thirteen year olds...

A couple days later, I ran into her again at the school auction/fundraiser. I greeted her pleasantly, and she made the comment again. This time, I gently lobbed the ball back at her? Is there such a thing as looking too young?

Her answer, "well I wouldn't want to be thirteen again" didn't really answer my question, and I was quite frankly appalled by her bold face rudeness. I had my daughter young, admittedly, I was two months shy of turning twenty, so technically, I was a teenage mother- there I said it. But, hey , by the way, for all smug mothers who think that you have to be in a state of advanced maternal age to give your child a fighting chance in this world, please note that Barack Obama's mother was also a teenager when she gave birth to him. Pity how he turned out- probably he will be the first African American presidential nominee, and he will likely also become president(sorry Hillary, I'm still with you- I'm just sayin).

This woman, who repeatedly insisted that I look "too" young, probably had her daughter in her mid thirties, because my guess is that she is now in her late forties to early fifties. I may note that our daughters applied to the same secondary school, and only one of them got in- and it wasn't mama Grannie panties daughter. Maybe that's why she now scowls at me. Maybe she is jealous. Idk, as my daughter would say.

Whatever the case, I can't understand why people, in general, feel it is okay to make derogatory remarks to women that they think look young to be mothers. Maybe, a woman did have a baby at a younger age then planned, but then, hey don't you think that might just be a sensitive subject? Maybe strangers and semi acquaintances ought to back off and not poke and prod at such a sensitive subject. I mean do they want an honest answer...

Yes, I was a whore in college. I was so drunk/high/stupid, that I got pregnant. I wanted to become a drain on society, so I chose to keep the baby and not to have an abortion or give her up for adoption. So kind of you to recognize how I failed my entire family and myself. It wasn't at all painful feeling isolated, as all of my friends were at frat parties, and I was at home folding laundry and breastfeeding. I love to talk about the good old days. Please be sure not to give me any credit for the sacrifices that I made. Don't count the fact that I went on to complete my college degree, while being a mother to my child, hundreds of miles away from all my family and friends. Simply treat me as a complete piece of shit that you spew offensive things at without making any type of apology. By the way, my brother is alcoholic, perhaps you'd like to talk to him about why he doesn't drink anymore? Maybe you can ask him where he thinks the best rehabs are- he has been to five of them across the country.

Or do they want me to return the favor...

I don't know if you can look too young, but Jesus Christ, you sure as shit can look too old. Did you know that grey hair makes you look like some one's grandma. I mean I have a great hairdresser who can perform miracles. A little botox, a new wardrobe, have you seen the show ten years younger? I'd be willing to write into the website for you.

And by the way....

I know that I look young, but last time I checked girls can start getting pregnant by about age twelve. So, unless you are certain that I am under twenty five, and the mother of five, do yourself a favor and do not say to me " You look too young to be a mother/her mother/ their mother- okay, you mothers?

THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE FREE

2008-05-12T07:43:00.000-07:00

So on Friday, I was invited by my five year old daughter to come to a Mother's Day tea in her pre-k classroom. Absolutely so cute! She made me all of these adorable things which if I was more adept I would post pictures of, but since I'm not, you'll have to use your imagination.

One thing was a fill in the blank paper that was laminated.

My mom is as pretty as.... most of the kids put a flower, my little lady wrote "pumpkin." Hope she really loves Halloween, and does think that I look orange and, or round.

The favorite thing that I do for her is read her stories, which is also what, according to her, I am best at. I am really smart...because I know what 10+10 is. Oh, if only everyone I knew was five.

At the end of the tea, the teachers passed around a class scrapbook, made by one the teachers, chronicling the pre-k year with pictures of all of the kids in the class. There were pictures of the first day, of field trips, of special events,etc. and they were all arranged beautifully. This scrapbook was one of the items up for bid at the school's annual auction/fundraiser held this past Saturday night. Of course, on Friday, all of the kids were clamoring for their mommies to buy it.

Since, I rarely ever have a camera, and if I do, it is usually without the memory card, or about to die from lack of battery power, I decided that I would bid on this item. I have loads of pictures of my first, and a good amount of my second, but pretty much that is where the picture taking ended. No one has a scrapbook, so I thought this would be a great thing to get.

At the auction, however, the mom of one of my daughter's best friends made it clear that she was determined to have this album. Since my limit was extremely low, I knew that she would win. Even though I attempted to shame her, and make her feel sorry for me, and guilt her into not using her insane wealth to gather all the goods, she wouldn't budge. Her daughter wanted to buy it for her for mother's day, and so she was willing to spend any amount of money.

On Mother's Day morning, my little Isabelle came upstairs to give me flowers that she had picked out at the supermarket. She was beaming and proud. She came into bed and cuddled up with me. She asked me about the auction because by the time we got home, the night before, she was already in bed.

It was fun, I said. I tried to win your picture book, but K's mommy won it instead. Why? she asked, did she win it?

Well, I said, because she paid more money.

Oh, she said, well I can go and visit it.

Yes, you can, I said, and I smiled and hugged her, and thought to myself what a gift that all she needs to make her happy is my love, and a few bites of the egg that my husband made for me breakfast.

She never asks for anything directly, coy little angel that she is. As my husband brought up breakfast in bed, she looked at my tray and said, "why do sometimes mommies share their mudder's day breakfast with their little girls?"

Because they love them, I answered, putting a fork full of egg up to her mouth.

The smile on her face, while she ate the egg, sitting on my lap, absolutely priceless. And while I don't have a picture of it, I 'm certain, it's an image that I'll never forget.

FALSE LABOR AND THE LIKE

2008-05-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

It seems so many moms in the blogosphere are pregnant. Two of my favorite daily reads, Mrs. Fussypants and Her Bad Mother are due any day, and there have been various showers and comment forms in their honor, most of which I have missed out on, either because I had my head stuck up my arse, or because every time I pressed submit I got some sort of default page. Very frustrating!!!!!!!

Not nearly as frustrating as false labor, however, which has been the topic of many of Her Bad Mother's recent posts. Having spent 45+months of my life pregnant, believe me, I can completely sympathize.

So in hopes of cheering up expectant mothers everywhere, I submit to you my own philosophies and stories about false labor.

But before I go any further, I would like to address the whole term "false labor" as I believe it really is a misnomer. In my opinion, there is no such thing as "false" labor. The word false implies "not true", so if someone is in false labor, who is it exactly that is not being true, or more bluntly, lying? No one, valuing their own life, would want to suggest that a woman, forced to pack pounds, and deprived of sleep, alcohol and seeing past her feet, would lie about being in labor, would they? I prefer to refer to, what is commonly known as, "false labor" as warm up labor.

Warm up labor occurs as the body begins to ready itself for the marathon that is childbirth. You can't just run a marathon without training for it; and your body can't just burst into labor and then spit out a baby. Your body has to practice, and just like training for a marathon is strenuous exercise that can be painful, warm up labor can be as exhausting, though typically not as painful, but painful enough in its own right, as actual labor that eminently leads to childbirth. Women should not be accused of not being in "true" labor, rather it should be explained to them that their body is just in the warm up phase. They should not feel ashamed or embarrassed or they like they are crazy or wimpy. None of that is true. And while, on occasion a woman will just drop her baby like nothing happened, the norm really is that most women suffer with labor pains for days and even weeks before the actual birth of their babies.

And yet the story, told by Her Bad Mother, of going to the hospital and being made to feel foolish by said medical doctor because she came in too soon, is a tale many of us moms know all to well. Not, of course, that any of us want to admit it. We all want to pretend that our only trip to labor and delivery ended happily. Who wants to relive the embarrassment of being told, "oh, this is false labor, you can go home"? Who wants to recall the shrill sound of the doctors and nurses laughing as you leave, and whispering to one another, "can you believe that she thought THAT was labor. Wait til she really is in labor, she'll be a doozy!" Who wants to remember that even your own family turns against you when you are in "false" labor. Your husband demands to know why you can't tell the difference, your mother shakes her head as if to say, you should have known better.

You know who I blame for the whole "false" labor phenomenon? Hollywood. I know, I know, it's an easy target. We blame them for everything. The sexualization of children, the self-esteem problems of people everywhere;etc., but this is legitimate ( not that the other accusations are not, let's face it, Hollywood is blameworthy for many offenses) . In almost every movie that I have seen where a character gives birth ( off the top of my head am thinking: Jerry Maguire, Nine months, and most recently, Baby Mama) labor lasts all of sixty seconds. One minute the pregnant woman is dressed up and dining, as if the past nine months have been a walk in the park, and the next minute she is in the delivery room pushing out, the largest, most perfect looking newborn ever born. Even though we know better, we are conditioned to believe that labor is a one time event. Something that just comes up out of blue, and happens quickly and dramatically.

So when we are nine months pregnant, and we start having symptoms, we figure this must be it! Warm up labor is one of those secrets that other women withhold. No one tells you at the shower," oh just wait til the last month when everyday seems like it's THE DAY." As pregnant women experience, "false labor", they begin to wonder "what is wrong with me?" I remember thinking with my third that my body was playing tricks on me. By the time I had baby number, I finally knew that what I was experiencing was normal.

Don't be fooled by the medical professionals, either, and don't let them make you think that you are dumb because you came into early. Sometimes, they, themselves, don't know.

On Christmas Day, 2006, I gave birth to my youngest daughter. For a change, I was hoping that the baby would not be born early, because as I told everyone, "I just want(ed) to get through Christmas." The baby was actually due New Year's Eve, but I never had made it to my due date in the past, and had previously been almost two weeks early. So I was nervous. I spent the month of December acting like Santa on speed. I was trying to prepare everything just in case...

December twenty-third, I was not a right jolly old elf, I was an absolutely miserable bitch. I was nauseous, exhausted, constantly having contractions, and then my plug came out. My husband ordered me on bed rest. He took the other kids to dinner. At one point that night, I was ready to head for the hospital because I wanted to make sure that I got the pain medication I had missed out on with the last two. I was somewhat reluctant to go, however, because I didn't want to be sent home. I imagined how the nurses would snarl. "You've had four babies and you don't know the difference..."

On the twenty fourth, I spent most of the day resting, but got up to go to a Christmas Eve party, and to help my husband with toys;etc. On Christmas morning, I really felt fine as I watched the kids open gifts. Maybe, that day I thought, I'd make it to New Years. And then, I put the kids in the tub to get ready to go to my brother's house for Christmas Dinner, and the contractions started again, Dun Dun Dun...

My husband, who has never believed that any of our children would actually come out, said to me, "Oh, you'll be fine." We got to my brother's, and I thought better of stuffing my face, didn't want to see it coming back up in a couple of hours. I went to the bathroom and noticed I was gushing blood. I was having contractions that nearly knocked me to the floor, and I decided it was time to go.

Of course, no Doctor was at the hospital, or wanted to come to the hospital. The nurse checked me, and I was only 3 centimeters, which was what I was at the OB office a few days earlier. She hooked me up to the monitor, and quickly concluded that I should probably be sent home. Not only was I seriously disappointed that I was wasting my Christmas, I felt like a fool and a wimp because I really was in a lot of pain. and I really believed that it was time.

The nurse suggested that I walk before I leave, and I obliged. I made about three trips around the floor, stopping from the pain every few feet, and cursing like a sailor- at that point, I was truly deluded by the pain. "If this isn't fucking labor", I told my husband, "I don't know what is."

We passed the nurses station and I told them I was ready to go home. I heard the snickering and the laughing and the whispering, but I didn't even care. I went back to the room to wait to be released. I sat on the bed and immediately my water broke. I told my husband, "my water just broke." Calmly, he stated that I must be wrong and that I probably just peed my pants.

Wanting to kill him, but in too much pain to do so, I said, "then go and get the nurse and tell her that I just need to go the bathroom."

The nurse came in and said in an uppity voice " you need to go to the bathroom?" "No", I said, "my water just broke, but my husband didn't believe me. So I told him to go and get you so I that I could go to the bathroom.

She looked at me like I was crazy, but she checked me and sure enough, my water had broken. "Well, she said, now we have to admit you."

For about another half of an hour, no one really thought that I was going to have the baby anytime soon, but they were going to let me stay. Then all of the sudden, the storm became violent. I started vomiting, the contractions were beyond intense, and I could hear the nurse on the phone with the doctor, saying "yes, she is ready to deliver RIGHT NOW." They were fumbling about putting bracelets on me, drawing blood, and bringing in all the equipment.

Being the person that I am, I found a moment of solace in knowing that I was right, and when the nurse came back to my bedside, I looked up at her and said "see, I WAS in LABOR." Poetic justice and on Christmas, no less. As if our beautiful baby girl wasn't gift enough...

Our baby girl was born at 11:30p.m. on Christmas night. Now fifteen months later, I have to say even memories of false labor are fond. Remember that, expectant mothers everywhere. Too soon, this too shall pass, and you'll look back at these moments and wonder, where has the time gone?

best of luck to Mrs. Fussypants, and Her Bad Mother, and expectant mothers everywhere... Happy Mother's Day to all and to all a good night.

Things that haven't worked for me

2008-05-07T08:13:00.001-07:00

This post is part of the Rocks in My Dryer assignment to tell about things that haven't worked for you.

I have been a mom now for 13+years, so I probably won't be able to list everything that hasn't worked for me, but here is a quick, stream-of-conscious list.

Birth control- something about having to take it everyday, at the same time, really was a problem for me.

Getting organized- I like to buy the bins, read the books, and even get it all set up once, but that whole maintaining thing, not so much my thing.

Cribs- They are really cute look at, and I love all the baby bedding, but actually putting my kids down in them well, never happened. I was a super nut about SIDS and I thought sure if I put my little loves into the bed with bars, it would be all over for both us. I know the AAP and supernanny swear by these devices, I'm just telling you it didn't work for me.

Chore Charts- oh, they are very excited about them when they first go up, but like everything else, once the magic wears off, they're were another piece of junky paper hanging on my bulletin board, and believe me, I do not need that.

For everything you bring in, get one thing out. This goes back to the whole getting organized thing. Great theory, but not so simple to practice.

Moving so the house will be cleaner, in better shape, whatever. Was hoping that our most recent move to an over 4000 sq ft house would somehow magically make my house spotless. I'd have places to put everyone and everything. Unfortunately, having a place for something and actually putting in that place, are two entirely different things. Don't be fooled by the model home, unless you are Martha Stewart, your house will NEVER look that way.

STORIES #2&3- CON'T FROM YESTERDAY

2008-05-06T07:04:00.000-07:00

Story #- Barbie has had a terrible accident.

Growing up, I was a princess tomboy. I was always willing to play "ran sack the quarterback", another one of my brother's fab games, in which I was the quarterback, all forty seven pounds of me, and he and my cousin, T.J., were the defense line. Basically, I would try to run past the two of them with the ball for about two seconds until they tackled me. But, on the other hand, I liked to be girlie, dress in pink, watch beauty pageants, and play with my barbie dolls.

All of my Barbies had names, and occupations, and family members. I was always having barbie beauty pageants, and weddings, and I would often force my family to play along with me. I would plead with my mom to judge my beauty pageant. I would beg my oldest brother to play piano for the wedding. Tim, often, was a good sport and would play along- truthfully, I think he liked judging my barbie beauty pageants.

One day, however, my cousin T.J. was over at our house and he and Tim were playing outside. I was in the house minding my own business, when Tim came running into the house to tell me that "Barbie has had a terrible accident." I ran outside to see one of my barbies and one of my kens burned on my driveway in my Barbie corvette.

I screamed and demanded to know what he had done. My brother, being my brother, just spoke calmly. It can't always be beauty pageants and weddings, Laurie, he told me, as if somehow I would see the merit in what he had done. I'm just trying to teach you about real life.

For once, however, he was unable to charm his way out of the situation. He and my cousin were both grounded and forced to earn money to replace my barbies and my barbie corvette, which they had doused in gasoline, that my dad had in the garage, and then lit on fire with a match. Little bastards, they were.

Story #3 The Cadbury Egg explosion

Another one of my brother's hair brained schemes involved my Easter basket. Do you remember when cadbury eggs were first introduced? The bunny in the commercial made chicken sounds before laying those delicious cream filled eggs. I wasn't even sure, at first, that I would like them, but just because of the commercial, I wanted them.

As it turned out, Tim and I both really liked cadbury eggs. If I remember correctly, they came in a three pack box, and so these were the prized possessions of our Easter basket. I liked to save mine and eat them gradually over time. My brother, who at the time was a little chunky, which is funny because now he is the skinniest person I know, and also the most health conscious, would gobble his all up on Easter Sunday.

Like the idiot that I was, I never thought to hide my basket. It was like leaving sheep out for a wolf. Days later, the cadbury eggs were gone. Where did they go? I wondered. My mom and I looked everywhere, but nothing. My brother, knowing, he would be the obvious suspect, "came clean". Oh, he said, I'm really sorry. I saw your eggs still in your basket, and I didn't want them to melt, so I put them in the freezer. I went to make sure that they were still there, and that's when I saw that they had exploded. I'm really sorry, he said.

Even my mom believed him,, although pretty much to this today, she treats anything that either of my brothers say as Gospel. A little while later, however, my brother's burning desire to tell me how he had pulled one over on me won out. Since, it was so much after the fact, he didn't even get in trouble. I didn't learn from the experience, either, so I guess it served me right when the next year he stole my Easter candy and sold it at lunch to his friends. I only found this out because one of his friends had a crush on me and ratted him out.

My brother's worst punishment for all the wrongs that he perpetrated against me is that I do have a razor sharp memory. I often recall these incidents to embarrass him. Of course, he always denies that these events ever transpired, but deep down inside, he knows, and I know... and I have a wealth of funny stories to tell, and now I am grown up and I can buy as many cadbury eggs as I want, and I play with my daughter's Barbies, so all in all, in retrospect, I am glad that my brother was the little shit, I mean, prankster that he was.

CINCO DE MAYO IS MY BROTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

2008-05-05T13:13:00.000-07:00

HAPPY CINCO DE MAYO TO EVERYONE!

As the title of this post states, cinco de mayo is also my brother's birthday! Tim, my older brother, turns thirty six today. How can this be? I remember when he turned ten like it was yesterday. I remember when I was younger and people would ask me how much of an age difference there was between us. We are about two and a half years apart. In the old days, I would lower that number to an even two years, and sometimes, I'd even say eighteen months- like when he brought his friends home from high school. Now, I'm thinking, really, he is a solid three years older than I am.

In any case, Tim and I are very close, and in fact, he created the nickname, Laurie of the seven stories for me, on account of the fact that he says I am always repeating the same stories from our childhood over and over again. To be an ass, now when I recount a tale from our youth, he will often shout out a number, that's # six, he'll say. He has also enlisted my husband to help him number the stories. Mentally, they are both still about ten.

No matter what story I tell, Tim always says, I don't remember that. Of course, I know that he does. He always says to me, how can you remember that? In honor of his birthday, I will tell three of my favorite Tim and I stories. I am quite certain that you will agree, they are rather memorable, and not easily forgotten. For today, I only have time for one, so tune in again tomorrow for stories two and three.

#1 My brother wasn't a pro wrestler, but he played one on me.

My brother was a huge fan of wrestling when we were kids, not real wrestling mind you, WWF, which is now WWE. I know this because, through no fault of mine or my husband's, our boys also love wrestling. Must be some genetic weak link. Anyhow, thank god, they have each other to wrestle, although on occasion they can be found attempting a "fake" choke slam on one of their three sisters.

But back to my brother. He had only me or my older brother, John, to wrestle, so I was his victim, I mean partner. Not only did my brother wrestle me, he would simultaneously announce the match, and provide commentary.

One particular Sunday morning, my brother was up on the top ropes of my mom's brass bed, when he jumped onto my wrist and snapped the bone in half at the growth spot. The wind was knocked out of me, so it took a few minutes for me to vocalize my pain. When I finally was able to breathe again, and thus cry, my brother said, you're faking it. It took you two minutes to start crying.

I couldn't breathe, I told him. He didn't believe me. He told my mom that I was trying to get out of going to church. My mother threatened to take me to the ER. I'll take you to the ER room, she said, in a threatening voice, so that I would stop acting. I replied, please do.

I was hospitalized for two days because the swelling needed to go down before they could set my arm.

How did it happen? everyone wanted to know. I knew if I told the truth, my brother would be in big trouble, so I said that we were playing around on the bed and I hit my arm against the post. The doctor's didn't believe me. They questioned my mother about child abuse, probably thinking that someone had helped me make up a story.

I was nine at the time,and I made the story up on my own. My brother didn't ask me to, either. I knew it was an accident, that he didn't mean to hurt me, and I didn't want him to get in trouble on my account. He did play along with my story, though. I guess he figured if I wasn't telling, neither would he. He did come and visit me in the hospital, and he brought me a gift that he bought with his own money.

I have to admit, I have a soft spot for my brother. He can be extremely self-centered, and temperamental at times, as he was my parent's favorite and the middle child; but all in all, he is a really good brother, and a fun person to be around. Years after, the broken arm event, I out ted him as the culprit, and he admitted blame- sort of- in the sense that he didn't deny my accusation.

Today, I still enjoy listening to l00ny songs that he makes up about people; he often changes words to real songs, and sings them to friends and loved ones. He was always making up songs about his girlfriend, now ex, and singing them to her. It was strange, but entertaining. When we were little, he made up a song about me and my cabbage patch doll. I can't remember to what tune it was to, but the lyrics were "Lor is mental case, Lor is a mental Khayhayhayse, Lor is mental case, and so is Dena Denise." My brother was always the ring leader, so he also had all of my cousins singing that song all summer long. Is it any wonder why I remember?

Tim also does a great impression of someone taking out their false teeth, and someone using a voice talker, you know the automated voice things people use when they have lost the ability to speak. I know it's not very sensitive, or politically correct, but it is funny as hell after a few drinks.

My brother is also a great cook, and an accomplished runner. He is a friend to all who know him, and the source of many of my best and worst childhood memories.

Happy birthday, Tim. Hope you have many more.

P.S. - if forty is the new twenty, he's only sixteen, and I've just become a teenager. Yes, I believe that is true.

Tell your kids to stop reading Vanity Fair.

2008-04-29T06:11:00.000-07:00

First and foremost, many thanks to momma's tantrum for leaving me a comment. Since you were my only entrant, I will be sending YOU that 15. Old Navy gift card. Seriously, thanks for not making me sit all alone at the lunch table.

On another note, was watching the today show this morning as they were broadcasting from Amsterdam. My brother was just there a couple weeks ago, after he ran the Rotterdam marathon. My brother, almost thirty six, was the ninetieth man to cross the finish line. Not too shabby, considering there were over seven thousand entrants. So anyway, was interested in seeing Amsterdam, if only through the eyes of Matt Lauer, on my twenty inch t.v. screen.

On the New York side of the today show, Meredith announced what they would be discussing coming up in the next hour. One of the topics on today, "How to talk to your kids about Miley Cirus' photo shoot in Vanity Fair magazine."

Sadly, I was unable to watch, because God knows this is utterly important information. Right up there with how to teach your children to drive to the only store in town that sells avant-garde, over-priced magazines, full of soft porn pictures of kids, like Vanity Fair.

I mean, maybe I'm alone here on this, but what is the average age of Hannah Montana fan? My oldest daughter, Sierra, is 13 and certainly beyond the Disney channel shows, although she and her father do both have the song with the lyric "she's just being Miley", sorry I don't know the title, on their ipods. However, she is far from the stage where she idolizes or emulates this girl.

My boys, who are six and ten, have no interest in Hannah Montana. Our biggest fan is our five year old daughter, Isabelle. She does love Hannah Montana. She has a purple hair piece, a guitar, and the Hannah Montana tour bus. What she doesn't have, at least to my knowledge, is a subscription to Vanity Fair magazine. Her favorite reads are the Olivia book series, she loves pigs, and the Little Bear anthology.

I'm not sure how people come up with these topics for Today, or how the hosts can announce them with a straight face. Really, if it were not discussed in the media, how many people would read the Vanity Fair spread of Miley Cyrus that were under age? I do agree that these pictures are exploitative and in bad taste. If my child would happen to see them, which would likely happen due to some other media outlet's coverage of this story, and not because she happened to page through a copy of Vanity Fair, I'm pretty sure that I would know what to say to her. I mean, I am not a complete idiot. This is not nuclear physics people- this is Hannah Montana wrapped in a blanket, sans shirt. You can come up with something to say...

Oh yes, one more thing...

2008-04-28T11:28:00.001-07:00

If you participate in my comment contest (details in the post below), would you answer this question? Would you be mad about the beach cover up or not? Maybe it's just me, but I wouldn't be mad. Maybe I'm in the minority. Just curious.

BRUTUALLY HONEST MONDAYS: WE'RE NOT IN HIGHSCHOOL ANYMORE- OR ARE WE?

2008-04-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

We're not in high school anymore.

I can't tell you how many times moms I know, myself included, have used this phrase to describe another mom's seemingly immature behavior, because we all know that gossiping about and labeling others is the best way to stay above the fray. We don't act like we're in high school anymore. We don't worry about what other people think; we don't engage in competitions with our close friends; we don't talk about people behind their backs; and we don't get our feelings hurt over silly things, like party invites, who called who first;etc. The moment that we turned our tassels from one side to the next, we were magically transformed from silly school girls to mature matriarchs, ruled by reason.

On brutually honest Monday, the truth must be told. Here ye, Here ye:

It doesn't matter that we're not in high school anymore. The tassel turning is really just symbolic, and not, in fact, actually magic. Think about it. We do still worry about what other people think (how many of you were at the home depot this weekend?); we do engage in competitions with our friends; we talk about people behind their backs and yes we still get hurt over silly things.

Case in point

My own mother was in my car on Friday and we were going to pick up my kids at school when she started to tell me about the beach cover up scandal. My mother, who is 65, is preparing to go on a cruise with a bunch of high school friends as a sort of unofficial reunion. She was preparing to have a meeting at her house on Sunday so that the travel agent could give everyone their packets. My mother is of the generation that doesn't use new fangled technology, like atm cards, and the U.S. mail service, but I"ll save that subject for a series of future posts.

Why didn't the travel agent just mail the packets? I ask her.
Well, people might have questions.
Having just returned from a cruise that I booked on line only a month in advance, I can't really understand what questions these people could possibly have. I mean the reservations are all made. The dinner debate, over what seating the group should get, has been over for months. The superdelegates intervened and 6:30 won the election. Now all that is left to do is to hand out the tickets. That what is in the packets, the tickets and the luggage tags. So what would the questions be?

Do I have to bring my ticket with me? Can I use a movie ticket to get on the cruise instead? Do the luggage tags go on the actual luggage, or should I simply clip them to a photo of my luggage? I mean, mom if you want to have a party, just say I want to have a party.

In any case, amidst the discussion of what my mother would serve at this Q& A on Sunday that would be held at her house, my mom says to me, did I tell you what Jean did?

Jean, my mom's friend, called her last week to say, she still hadn't found a beach cover-up. If you think teenagers shopping for prom dresses are difficult, you should see what it is like when senior citizens shop for cruise wear. Add to it that the cruise is a reunion cruise and it becomes ten times worse.

I told her that you helped me find a cute one at Old navy, my mom said. I described it to her, and told her that maybe they had others- which of course was my mom's code for don't get the same one that I did. Do you know she went and bought the same cover up but in a different color?

Have you called police yet? I sarcastically replied. What grade are you going into third or fourth? And I said to her, you did realize that Old navy is a national chain and not a couture boutique, that the beach cover up is mass produced, that more than one other woman on the cruise could be wearing it? Imagine the shock and horror.

She was completely annoyed by my response. I don't want to be seen wearing the same thing that she is. People will think we are trying to dress like twins; or that she looks better. I shook my head at my mother. Poor soul.

I spent the weekend reveling in my own maturity, thinking to myself, what a shame mom doesn't get it and go beyond.

It was not until this morning, when I was on the phone with my friend Susan, gossipping about some other nutball mom who tries to boss all of us other moms around, that I realized I am not much better. At drop off this morning, I talked to another mom about this same bossy mom, and she rolled her eyes, and then said half-heartedly, oh I shouldn't have done that. Then, I spent an hour on the phone with my cousin talking about her daughter's prom drama and how weird soccer people are.

Do we ever really grow up? I'm going to say no. Because we are not in high school anymore maybe means that we should know better, try harder, and attempt to reserve judgement, but our graduation does not free us from the bonds of being silly school girls. It's not always a bad thing- as at times it makes life more fun. What is life without a little drama? The key
word, for us adults, is little.

What do you think? Do you think it is possible to shed your school girl skin? Leave a comment, and because I'm the new girl, sitting at the lunch table by myself, I'll reward one random winner with a $15 old navy gift card, provided you promise not to buy a beach cover up, wink wink. Look at me paying for friends, and trying to harass my mother, you can take the girl out of high school...

About the Dwarfs

2008-04-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

By the way, I totally forgot to say... that the movie that my cousin Luann took me to see when I got my legs caught was Snow white and the Seven Dwarfs. My omission of the movie title speaks to how little I was able to enjoy the movie after I nearly lost my legs to a ridicuosly uncomfortable movie seat.

Also, I noticed that I didn't finish one of my sentences about Jaws. What I meant to say was that even though I knew it was prepostorious that a shark could enter a swimming pool via a filtration system, I ,nevertheless, was plagued by the memory of the two note theme song nearly every time I entered the pool.

I apologize for the errors. Wish I knew how to edit a post once it is posted. Am a technological moron.

Sharks and dwarfs are my first movie memories- is it any wonder I am crazy?

2008-04-25T14:57:00.000-07:00

Flashback Friday

My mom is from a large Italian family, she is one of seven. When I was growing up, my mom and her brothers and sisters always took turns having family parties. We probably had birthday parties biweekly during some months. The routine for every party was pretty much the same, pot luck; adults hang out talk and eat and drink while kids run wild outside or in the basement.

Aunt Joan and Uncle Anthony had the most kids, five, and consequently, the most fun house. They had this awesome basement where we kids would go and play, literally, until someone was bleeding. I am not sure what year it was, but I was somewhere between the ages of four and six, when Aunt Joan and Uncle Anthony decided to host a movie party at their house to watch the Jaws premier on t.v. Of course, the kids weren't going to watch.

I was the kid that always sick at the worst times -when my class took field trips, holidays, and My Aunt and Uncle had their movie party. I don't remember how it was discovered that I was sick, all I remember was my mom taking me home and my dad staying at the party with my brothers. I was so damned disappointed, but not well enough to fight back.

Back at home, I, being sick, wanted to lay in my mom's bed. My mom, being trapped in a time without vcrs, tivo, or any other device on which to watch movies at her leisure, wanted to watch JAWS. Who knew when it would be on next? Never mind, that my little girl will never want to swim again. Less time, I' ll have to spend watching her at the pool, more time I again spend watching the soaps.

I don't remember much except that fin starting out in the distance, then coming closer, then blood and screaming. From that moment on, I was fascinated by sharks and the Jaws series, but also scared to death of my own swimming pool. My Dad would say, Laurie, how can a shark get into a swimming pool. I'd point to the filter. Even then I knew that it was ridiculous, but every time I jumped into the deep end or waded in the shallow end, or swam at night, which I almost absolutely never did. Rafts were out for me, also, and I still stick to the sand at the beach.

My other first movie memory involves the first time that I went to the movie theatre, or at least, the first time that I remember going to the movie theatre. My cousin, Luann, who incidentally is hearing impaired took me. I was probably about four and as skinny a string bean. Luann, not known for her love of kids, and I sat down in the darkness, preparing to watch the movie. I was a skinny as a string bean and made the mistake of sitting on feet so that I could see better. Of course, almost immediately I slipped into the back of the chair and caught my legs. Because was four, I didn't think, oh right, Luann can't hear me, so for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably tops five minutes, I sat there screaming and wondering why in the world Luann wouldn't help me out of the chair.

other participating blogs:

Mrs. flinger
Izzy Mom
Mamalogues
Sweetney
Oh the Joys
Assertagirl

FIRST CLASS ISN'T ALWAYS WHAT IT IS CRACKED UP TO BE

2008-04-25T08:54:00.000-07:00

Just got finished reading the Bloggess' account of her first class flight to Puerto Rico. It is hilarious. She speaks of the joys of first class, however, her vision is impaired, I mean enhanced by a combination of xanax and cocktails, which could make an episiotomy seem like a spa treatment.

I once first hand experienced the down side of sitting in first class, which is that those seats often are filled by obnoxious asses. Here is my story. My brother would probably this number six or seven.

I get to the airport with my two children who are at the time four and eleven months. I am leaving my parents' house in Fla to return home, which at the time was in Columbia, South Carolina.

I hate to fly, and I have two flights with two babies ahead of me. Myhusband had to stay home and work. The airport is busy because it is Spring Break. This is pre 9/11, so mom and dad walk us to the desk. I see Bruce Hornsby, who I recognize because he has recently had, if memory serves me correctly, twins and I saw him on some morning show. He is on our flight, and now I know the plane is going to crash and we will all die a fiery death. I look down at my shoes, and think these are the flipflops that will be floating in the ocean on cnn. They'll say, one of the victims was a young mother of two... I know I am crazy...

* Some of my superstitions with regard to flying include:*

1. Never fly on plane where there are celebrities, the makings of a perfect tragedy.
2. Never take a bump or switch flights, because then you are destined to go down. Your family will say, "if only she had been on her original flight"
3. Only fly if a major crash has recently occured, you have better odds.
4. Don't fly if you hear "fire and rain" on the radio anytime during the week before your flight.

And now back to my story:

So anyway, I saw Bruce Hornsby and I started to panick. Then I heard the flight was overbooked. The check-in guy told me that no way would I make my connecting flight because this flight was going to depart later than scheduled. If I missed my connecting flight, I would have to sleep in the charlotte airport because there were no more flights to Columbia that night, and every hotel in Charlotte was booked on account of March Madness. He could give me first class seats on the first flight in the morning. Over course, I'd be laid over in Charlotte for three hours instead of twenty minutes, as I would have been if my original flight took off on time, but it was my best option. I agreed, figuring, the likelihood that we'd live to see Charlotte was slim, what with two red flags, celebrity and switch flight, already up. Although maybe, since I switched my flight to avoid flying with a celebrity, the two would cancel each other out and I would be safe.

The next morning we arrived for our first class flight. Everything went eerily well. We were the first on the plane, and all the flight attendants were being super sweet. One teeny tiny problem. The two seats they gave us were not together. I was across the aisle from my daughter and in the window seat. At four she would not sit alone and next to a stranger. "Oh the FA said, don't worry, I'm sure whoever has the seat next to you will happy to switch. Just sit her next to you and ask them when they get on the plane."

Enter a most disguisting being. Over weight, sloppily dressed, wearing his hair in a braid and carrying a two liter of diet coke and a styrofoam box of greasy, stinky chinese food. "This is my seat" he says. I nicely explain the situation. His reply is "I paid for this seat, and this is where I will sit."

I wanted to fucking strangle him. I explained to the FA nicely that I originally had seats that were next to each other, but because of an airline error, I had to have my flight switched. I got no food vouchers, no hotel accomodations, and now I was getting a bag of shit from this guy.

"I am sorry mam, but there is nothing that I can do. It is his seat."

With that I picked up the baby and moved over to my window seat, leaving my daughter alone with the spineless slob. I figured that if she cried for a couple of minutes, he would agree to switch. Instead, he sat there as she sobbed and guzzled his diet coke straight from the bottle and shoveled his chinese food into his swine-like face. So disgusting.

A woman came and sat down next to me. She asked me what was going on. She insulted him and asked him what his problem was. He ignored her, and my crying daughter, and continued to stuff his face and heckle the FA to bring him more food. Ultimately, the woman who was sitting next to me said she'd next to the bastard.

The only good thing about the trip was that for the first time in a long time, I felt safe flying. Death by plane crash would be too comfortable a death for the devil sitting across the aisle from me.

IT'S NOT THURSDAY AGAIN?!

2008-04-24T07:54:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning and turned on the t.v. to check the weather report, I could not believe that the five-day forecast started with Thursday. Today is Thursday! I am turning into my mother.

She can never believe what time it is. We'll be somewhere, anywhere-at my house, at her house, out for a walk, out to lunch, or on the sidelines of the kids soccer field, and she'll say to me, because she rarely wears her watch, " WHAT TIME IS IT?"

I look at my watch and answer her. It's 9:30; 10:30; 5 o'clock, or 8 o'clock, it doesn't actually matter what time it is, her response is ALWAYS the same. "It's not (5,6,7,or whatever time it is) o'clock?

I can't for the life of me imagine why she would think that I would lie to her about the time. What would my possible motivation be for doing so? Do I secretly want to throw off her schedule? Does she think that I am trying to detain her? I don't know, but I always, "Yes, it really is whatever time it actually is, and then to prove to her that I am not trying to deceive her about the actual time, I show her my watch. She usually sighs and says "I can't believe it."

The other day we took my aunt, her sister, out to lunch. She is older and her health isn't great, so we thought it would be a nice thing to do. We picked her up at her house at about 11:30. We drove to the restaurant, had a leisurely lunch, and then drove my Aunt back to her house. On the way home from Aunt's house, she sat in the front seat of my car, where my aunt had previously been sitting. She looked at my car clock. "This isn't right" she said to me pointing at the clock.

"Um, yeah, it is."
"It's not 2 o'clock?"

I thought to myself, this has to stop. "How is it", I say, indignantly," that the time is always a surprise to you? Don't ever have an idea of what time it is?" I went through the events of the afternoon. "What time did you think it was?"

My mom laughed at herself, recognizing what a ridiculous habit she had adopted. I sat smugly in the driver's seat, thinking to myself, man she is losing it. I hope I never get like that.

And then, this morning, I was surprised that it was Thursday. I knew full well last night when I went to bed that it was Wednesday, nevertheless, Thursday was a complete surprise. I suppose that' s what I get for being smug. No matter how old you get, I suppose, you shouldn't talk back to your mother.

HILARY WINS IN PA!

2008-04-23T08:01:00.000-07:00

I had exactly fifteen minutes between the time that I finished giving the kids dinner before they went off to CCD, and the time that I had to be back at home take our exchange student to a prom meeting at her high school, to drive to the polls and cast my vote in the PA Primary.

Why didn't you go during the day? My husband asked.

Ha! I laughed. Even though over the years he has become smart enough not to say so, I still think he believes that I do very little during the day. Unfortunately, I didn't have a spare second all day long to go vote, much less to take a shower.

I had to drop my daughter off at school in the a.m. and then pick up by one o'clock (she is in pre-k). My ten old son was home from school sick. The baby was here and in need of meals, snacks and nap time. The school secretary from our exchange student's high school called to tell me about the prom meeting at seven. My six year old came off the bus with a bag full of homework to complete, and he had to be ready for CCD by six fifteen. My oldest daughter had to be picked up at quarter to five from Lacrosse practice. I had to shower and get ready for the meeting at the high school and also cook dinner, entertain two little girls, and help the boys with homework, and make up classwork that my older son was sent since he was home sick.

Why didn't I vote during the day? It's a good question.

Fortunately, when I arrived at the polls, there was absolutely no line. I was able to get in and out in less than fifteen minutes, and I was in fact, home with time, maybe a minute, to spare. While I was at the polls, I was approached by both an Obama supporter and a Clinton supporter. I took literature and a sticker for Hillary, and on my way home while I was stopped at a traffic light, I gazed at the materials. For some reason, the sticker looked surreal to me. It was red, white and blue, and it said "Hillary for President." It reminded me of something you might find in an American Girl catalog, or something a kid would give out if she was running for president of her class.

Hillary, a woman, is running for president of the United States. Of course, I have known this for a while, but at that moment, looking at that sticker, it sort of hit me all at once, it was real.

I have to tell you that I live in a divided household. My husband is a registered Republican. My oldest daughter likes Obama. The only other Hillary fan in my household is my five year old daughter, Isabelle. For some reason, probably because she is a momma's girl, she is very excited about Hillary.

As I was driving home, I was thinking about how amazing it is that my daughters will grow up in a time where women can run for president, and be formidable opponents of men. When I was little girl, in the late seventies and early eighties: men were Doctors and women were nurses, boys played sports and girls did ballet, Dads went to work and moms stayed home and cooked and cleaned and took care of the kids.

I am sahm, and I completely appreciate the value of my job as such. Just the other night, a mother of one said to me "I can't imagine what it is like with five, you must completely loose your identity." At one point in my life such a statement would have made me furious, but I simply smiled and said calmly, "um, I wouldn't exactly say that." Being a stay at home mom can be as fulfilling and demanding a job, if not more, than any other job in the workforce. Nevertheless, I think it is a wonderful world when women can be whatever they want.

FRIDAY FLASHBACK- BETTER LATE THAN NEVER- TAKE TWO!

2008-04-22T06:16:00.001-07:00

There is an entire epoque of my life full of stories and memories that I would prefer to never share with my children, and in particular with my oldest daughter. The stories aren't about the times that I skipped school; drove to Washington D.C. on a school day to pick up my boyfriend, three weeks after getting my license; or about the numerous times that I drank, smoked, experimented with various substances and made poor choices. I would be willing to share these stories, under the right set of circumstances, although I confess that I hope that I will never have to.

The memories and stories that I never want my children to know about relate to how I first became a mother and a wife. These memories and stories, which are for many families, happy tales openly shared around the dinner table and written about in baby books, are for me painful and shameful.

For instance, I hate when people ask me the question, how many years have you been married? If my husband and I are together, without the kids, we will look at each other when this question is asked, and convey to one another through a glance, whether or not we should tell the truth or lie. The truth is, that we did things backwards, baby first then marriage. I know that it is not as big of a deal anymore, as it once was, to mess up the proper chronological order of these events, but it still feels wrong. The sense is, "oh you had to get married", and in part, that is kind of the truth.

When I first found out that I was pregnant, I wasn't elated as most mothers are. Instead, I felt
like someone had punched me and knocked the wind out of me. I couldn't believe that my life was over at nineteen. I told my mom, while I was home on Spring Break, that I was pregnant. Thank God, my Dad was away on business at the time. It was March and I was due in July, so I was nearly six months along, though you couldn't tell by looking at me. I crawled into her bed the day before I was to fly back to school and I told her. Once the words came out of my mouth, I started to cry.

My mom was not happy. She did not call all of her friends and tell them that she was going to be a Grandma. She took me to the mall and we bought some non maternity clothes that would fit me. I wasn't going to be able to spend a lot of money on clothes anymore, my mom told me, if I kept the baby.

From April until July, my life moved in slow motion. My parents told me that if I wanted to keep the baby that I would have to get married, otherwise I would have to put the baby up for adoption. Our engagement was simple. No roses, no music, no surprise in black box. My now husband bought the ring that he could afford, which wasn't much considering he was twenty and a college student, and he gave it to me one afternoon.

We rented an apartment in the college town where we lived, ten hours from home. I wanted to come home to live, but my parents said no. I had to stay and finish my degree. I felt abandoned and isolated. I knew no one in my situation, and because I had only just transferred to that school in the fall as a Sophomore, basically I knew no one. We found out that the baby was a girl. I called my mom to tell her because I was excited, and she responded in a monotone voice, "oh, is it a girl?" In her opinion, I did not deserve to be excited. Everything had to be somber.

The day we went to look for my wedding dress was miserable. We went into one store. My mother motioned towards one dress, I said that I liked it, and we were done. I told her that I wanted to look some more, maybe try a few things on-she said plainly that I would be getting that dress. My girlish dreams of a wedding fit for a princess were quickly extinguished. Because of my mistake, I forfeited the right to have an opinion.

The night before I was to be induced, my soon to be husband did not come home until 2 AM. He went out drinking with his friends as a sort of last hurrah. I was furious and scared to death. We left for the hospital and six am and by 6 pm that night I delivered my beautiful baby girl.

Almost immediately, nothing else mattered. I had beautiful baby who was healthy. I didn't care if my mom was mad at me, if my ring was the size of peanut sliver, if my reception was at McDonalds. I didn't care that nurse was nasty to me because she thought that I was too young. I had a purpose, someone who needed me to the best me that I could be.

Over time, everyone came to love and accept the baby and our family. There were still many hard moments ahead, and the task of being a young mother in a society that is very unaccepting of that lifestyle choice was not and still sometimes is not an easy thing. However, I truly believe that my daughter's life story transformed my life story for the better. Thirteen years later, I know that I made the right choice, and I know that all those who doubted me at the time, would now agree that it was the best decision that I could have made.

I prefer not to share the sad stories that surround the beginnings of our family, however, with my children. They are truths and realities that I think that they are better off not knowing. I would never want my oldest daughter to think of herself as a mistake-if anything, she is the best thing that happened to me. I did miss out on a lot of things because I became a mom at a such a young age, and the circumstances under which I became a wife and mother were not ideal to the least, but that has not diminished the joy that being a mother has brought me, and I would never want my children to think otherwise.

Other participants in flashback Friday:
Izzy Mom
Her Bad Mother
Mrs. Flinger
Mamalogues
The Bean Blog

FRIDAY FLASHBACK-BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

2008-04-22T06:14:00.001-07:00

C'mon Kate- give Jody a break!

2008-04-17T16:44:00.000-07:00

Last week, Kate took her kids to the crayola factory and refused to let them use markers. I thought that was bad, until I watched this past Monday nights episode, in which Kate calls her sister-in-law Jody, upon returning home from a one-on-one day with daughter Mady and husband Jon, to chastise her for giving the three year old sextuplets gum while she babysat them for the afternoon. I mean, she's kidding right?

F.Y.I. to Kate and any other Moms who give relatives who volunteer to babysit, in all likelihood for free, but even if not free, it is still a favor- YOU DON'T LOOK A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH.

As the mother of five children, if absolutely any of my relatives offer to babysit, I am ecstatic. Kate, and I have met many other mothers like her, has some type of entitlement complex. Boo hoo, I had eight kids so the world should help me watch them. Look, I agree, the woman deserves a hand, but when her sweet as sugar sister-in-law offers to babysit seven of her children for the day, plus she has her own three kids, one that is a fairly young baby, I think the appropriate response for this gesture is "THANK YOU"- not tell me you didn't give my kids gum.

Do you want to go out or not? If you are such a control freak that you can't let go a little when someone else is doing you a favor, perhaps you should always watch your own kids, or hire someone who pay handsomely to follow your instructions like a robot. This is not how to treat your family, on national t.v. nonetheless. If I were Jody I would forgive her, but it would be a cold day in hell before I'd babysit again.

HERE IS WHAT I EXPECT FROM MY FAMILY MEMBERS WHEN THEY GRACIOUSLY OFFER TO BABYSIT, ONCE IN A BLUE MOON...

1. THAT WHEN I RETURN, ALL OF THE CHILDREN ARE STILL BREATHING.
2. THAT ANY AND ALL FIRES STARTED IN MY ABSENCE ARE FULLY EXTINGUISHED BEFORE I RETURN HOME.
3. THAT NO MORE THAN 10 CHILDREN AND NO LESS THAN THE FIVE(ORIGINAL) ARE IN MY HOME AT THE END OF THE EVENING.

IF SAID BABYSITTER MANAGES THIS, AND HAS CALLED ME EVERY SEVEN SECONDS SINCE I LEFT, I CONSIDER THE NIGHT A SUCCESS.

Personally, I think that Kate has grown entirely to accustomed to having everyone wipe her ass, and now doesn't even think that she has to be appreciative when someone does something nice for her. I don't care how organized she is, nice is more important in my book.

SAY IT ISN'T SO

2008-04-16T06:37:00.001-07:00

Just walked into my bedroom to shut the t.v. off as the Today show was doing a segment on "comeback items." There for a second I thought they said, Members Only jackets and Acid washed jeans are back in style. No, I must have heard wrong. I hit the rewind button on the remote- OMG- it's true!

I have one question to ask what is wrong with these people?

MEMBERS ONLY jackets can not come back into style, if in fact, they ever were. I saw many middle aged, over weight men wearing these everyday. I live in a town that has its fair share of people stuck in a time warp. What's next- everyone will start wearing elastic waist pants and polyester mu mus? JUST SAY NO!

ACID WASHED JEANS go nicely with mullets. There was no announcement that mullets are coming back, but I suppose they had to save something for tomorrow's segment. Is it my imagination or does the Today show have too much time on its hands. Stop adding hours if you are going to use them to promote bad fashion sense. ACID WASHED JEANS WERE ALWAYS UGLY. JUST SAY NO!

On the upside, apparently, tretorn sneakers are also back in, though, I wasn't aware that these were ever out. You remember them, perhaps. They were the shoe to have when I was in junior high ( mid to late eighties). They are are canvas shoe with a little comma like thing, the tretorn emblem, on either side. The emblem is the only thing that is colored, and the very tip of the back of the shoe are only things that have color. You were really cool if you could find some unique color, or even better plaid, that no one else had. Technically tennis shoes, we wore them more as fashion statement than a sport shoe. GO GET THESE AND STAY AWAY FROM THE AFOREMENTIONED ITEMS!

INSINCERE APOLOGIES

2008-04-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

As a resident of the state of Pennsylvania, I have been hearing so much about Obama's remarks regarding the people of Pa lately. It's all over the national news, and here, it is also big local news, so I can't help but think about it.

This morning, as I listened to pundits speak about Obama's defense, which is that he is not perfect, I began to feel really angry. There is nothing worse than an insincere apology.

Now Obama supporters, hold your horses! Don't go getting all hot and bothered. This post is more about how to apologize than it is about anything political. This mistake of Obama's can be lesson for all of us. Parents, in particular, should be eager to use this political boo boo to teach their children about how to give a proper apology.

The ability to say "I'm sorry" in a sincere and meaningful way is a strength that unfortunately few people seem to possess. This is a sad fact, because, as we are all human beings, we do all do things that we are often sorry for, or at least regret. When we hurt other human beings, either inadvertently or intentionally, we jeopardize our relationships. The only way to keep a relationship in tact, if you are responsible for the hurt that caused it to fracture, is to offer a sincere apology.

The words, "I'm not perfect" are not indicative of a sincere apology, but rather those words are used to deflect blame. When someone says, "I'm sorry, I'm not perfect", what they are really saying is, "yes you caught me doing something that I would admit is "wrong" (in Senator Obama's case, he was caught making a hasty generalization about the people who populate PA's small towns) but your expectation that I should apologize is unfair. When you defend yourself by saying "I'm not perfect", you imply that the offended or hurt party expected you to be perfect. As human beings, we all recognize that perfection is impossible, so to apologize for being imperfect is silly. Furthermore, it demeans the hurt. It puts the blame on the victim, saying they should not be hurt, but because of unrealistic expectations, they are.

The people of Pa do not expect Senator Obama to be perfect- that would be unreasonable. They do expect that he be respectful of their faith; they do expect that he not cast them in a negative light by characterizing them as "bitter"; they do expect that he not equate their love of hunting with desperation. One does not need to be a perfect person to live up to these expectations .

Of course, words are taken out of context, and it is entirely possible that Senator Obama did not mean to offend an entire portion of the population with his stereotypical generalizations. If that is the case, however, Senator Obama should not hide behind human nature, but rather he should offer a sincere apology- one which recognizes that what he said was hurtful to people, and one that recognizes that the hurt feelings of the people of Pa are legitimate. A proper apology will not attempt to make excuses. After all, it doesn't really matter why he said it, what matters is that he did say it, it hurt people and for that he should be sorry. It's that simple.

Having heard these words personally, and actually having a friendship end when a friend excused herself from hurting me with the line "I'm not perfect", I know that these words can add insult to injury. Having spoken these words myself, I recognize that this phrase is more a cop-out than it is a true explanation. Why can't we, as human beings, say we are sorry? Why is it so difficult?

When we say, "I'm not perfect", what we really mean is I'm not wrong. It may sound like a contradiction in terms, but think it through. When we say, "I'm not perfect" we deny responsibility for the wrong doing, as it is a part of our nature to be imperfect. Marine biologists tell us we can't blame sharks for biting humans. It is part of their nature, it is what they are biologically programmed to do. It is not wrong or bad behavior. As human beings, we are imperfect, so when we act imperfectly, we are not committing a wrong, but rather acting according to our nature.

There is a difference between being wrong and being imperfect. When we act wrongly, we do not act according to our nature, rather we choose to act against what we know is right. The choice isn't always a deliberate one, but it is a choice, nonetheless, for which we are responsible. Maybe Senator Obama didn't think his comments through, but he should have. When we speak about other people, we understand that our words have the potential to be hurtful or harmful, and thus, we have a responsibility when speaking to think through what we say so that it is not offensive, unless we intend it to be so. Sometimes, in order to speak truth, of course, we have to say things that some people will find offensive or hurtful. Even in that case, however, we can acknowledge the hurt. If for instance, Senator Obama believes that part of the problem in Pa is that people use religion and guns as a "crutch", he can still apologize that his remarks are a source of sore feelings, while still standing by them. What he positively should not do is to invalidate the feelings of the people Pa, as this only adds to the initial blow.

His response, that he is not perfect, may excuse him from culpability in the eyes of some people, however, I think that the people, to which this sentiment is directed, will continue to harbor bad feelings. An insincere apology, without a doubt, can cause bitterness in people. The saying, "it takes a big man to say he is wrong"is true. Admitting that you are wrong does carry some risk, but in the end, it is the right thing to do. And since we all know that two wrongs don't make a right, it seems to do right after you do wrong is the best strategy.

OOOOH! I'm in TRA BULL!

2008-04-14T07:49:00.000-07:00

Moms everywhere can breathe a sigh of relief. I received an email on Friday from my son's first grade teacher that officially confirmed that I am THE WORST MOTHER EVER!

Okay, I may paraphrasing a bit. Here is what it actually said... It began with Lori (she spelled my name wrong -1point)

"Aidan has not done the two weeks worth of Ketchup work that I sent home. It is a shame to see someone with so much potential developing such poor work habits at such a young age. He really needs your help."

Now you are all probably wondering, what in the world Ketchup work is?

No, it does not involve taste testing Heinz. Aidan would eagerly do that work. When we go to McDonald's and I ask him want he wants, he always includes "Ketchup" as part of his order. In fact, most times, he begins his order with Ketchup. I think that it is his favorite part of the meal.
Unfortunately, his love of Ketchup is limited to the food- and does not transfer to the school work of the same name.

KETCHUP work is comprised of papers that the students don't finish in class during the week. I did say that he is in first grade, right? On Friday, any papers that aren't finished, i.e. one word that was supposed to be circled did not get circled, are sent home to be done over the weekend. There is a rule at my kids school, it is a private school, that first graders are NOT supposed to have homework on the weekends, as they have at least two pages of homework every weeknight, except Friday, plus once a month book reports, and the occasional project. Apparently, Ketchup work is the exception to the rule. As my teenage daughter would say, IDK.

In any case, apparently for the past two weekends, my son brought this work home on Friday afternoon. I never saw it, because as he confessed to me this Friday, he took it out of his bag and hid it.

I have several responses to his teacher- some of which I can post without being offensive.

First of all, I have a problem with the notion that the class work that my son doesn't finish then becomes work that I should have to do with him at home. I mean, hello, isn't that her job? Can I send his homework back as her ketchup work?

I sat Aidan at the kitchen table for fifty minutes, but he didn't get this done. Please have him finish it at school today. I'm sure she'd love that! How 'bout this? I'll do the homework, you do the school work. Why I am a failure for not helping him do his work at home, but she, the teacher, is not a failure for helping him do his work at school? 3+2=5; 2+3=5!

Second, I am sorry to hear that my son's future is being permanently scarred by his failure to do Ketchup work two weekends in a row. Never mind that he is smart, sweet and social. In a world where kids plot to kill their teachers, he asked me while on spring break vacation in Jamaica, if he could buy something for his teacher.

Finally, I take offense to the notion that I do not help this boy. Everyday, I do the following:

Feed him, 3 meals, 2 at home, 1 packed lunch
bathe him
dress him
wash his clothes
wash his body
help him with his homework

Additionally each week, I
take him to karate, soccer, ccd, six million birthday parties and play dates.

And then there are the other four children, two cats, household.

So if I am a lousy mom, what can I say? I'm doing the best that I can.

SPEND SOME TIME IN TREATMENT

2008-04-12T08:04:00.000-07:00

Behind the closed door of my bedroom, I am seeing someone new. Not a lover, but a Doctor-specifically, a psychotherapist. I am watching "In Treatment", which stars the scholarly yet sexy Gabriel Byrne, who plays Dr. Paul Weston in HBO's new original series.

In the t.v. land desert, created by the writer's strike, I spent much of the winter looking for something other than my regularly scheduled programs, which became regularly scheduled reruns, to quench my thirst for evening entertainment. One night, while searching the HBO channels for a movie to watch, I stumbled on to "In Treatment."

This is not a reality show- but it offers many of the same guilty pleasures, as it has some basis in reality. If you've never been in therapy, the show provides an insight into how the whole process works, which I think is of interest to anyone suffering from the human condition. If you are no stranger to therapy, you will be equally at home and entertained on the couch of Dr. Weston.

Do be advised, this show can be addictive. The first season, which ran Mon-Fri for nine weeks, has aired in its entirety, however HBO continues to replay it. If you are a comcast cable customer, you can watch the entire series ON DEMAND. You will want to watch it in proper sequence, so that you don't miss anything!

I love this show because it is thought provoking and not mind numbing. In my opinion, if you really want to turn to t.v. to get away from it all, calgon style, what you want to do is give your mind a place to go, not bore it to death! I am not Doctor, and I don't even play one on t.v., but I strongly recommend a dose of "In Treatment" to fulfill your need for entertainment.

SPEND SOME TIME IN TREATMENT

2008-04-12T08:03:00.000-07:00

CREATE YOUR OWN CAMP- TRADITIONAL SLEEPOVER

2008-04-09T15:31:00.000-07:00

You can give your kids a traditional "sleepover" camp experience, without shelling out the big bucks, by taking them "camping" at your local state park. We have a state park, which is about fifteen minutes away from our home, that rents modern cabins, complete with kitchen, bath, 2 bedrooms, and a cathedral ceiling living room for under $400 for the entire week! This is less than it would cost to send one kid to camp for a week, and you can bring the whole bunch. If you stay locally, as we plan to do, Dad can come and go as he pleases without eating up vacation days at work! If you have a friend with kids that are roughly the same age as your own kids, maybe you could convince her to join you and rent a cabin herself-or if you really want to rough it- you could all share one cabin!

To find out if your local state park has cabin accomodations available, simply check your state park website. If you have never been to your state park, or have no idea where the closest one to you is, you should be able to find out simply by entering your state and the phrase "state park" on a google search engine to find the website, and ultimately your nearest park. The website should also have information about activities that are available at the park.

Our state park has a swimming pool, a playground, frisbee golf, boat rentals, and of course, tons of trails. They also have nature programs offered at specific times. Much of our camp experience will focus on participating in these activities, just as the kids would do at a regular camp. Additionally, I will bring arts and crafts supplies, books and movies. There is no t.v. in the cabin, but we have a small set with a built in DVD that we can plug in just to watch movies. We will definitely watch "The Parent Trap", new and old versions. I will look at the library for a book of ghost stories to read around the campfire for the older kids, and the younger kids can listen to a chapter book, probably a classic. We will leave behind the computer, the video games;etc. , just as they would have to do if they were going to an "actual" camp. Board Games that we rarely play at home, will see some action at camp.

Most campsites have grills available. Each cabin at our local park comes with its own charcoal pit, so we will do a lot of outdoor cooking. Smores are a must for this type of camp- hot dogs too!
I will keep all meals simple, camp cuisine. Since we won't be in a rush, the kids can prep dinner and desert.

Hope this inspires you! Don't deprive the kids of a camp experience simply because of cost!

CREATE YOUR OWN CAMP- GROUND RULES

2008-04-07T18:57:00.000-07:00

Hosting your own camp for your own kids will prevent some challenges. No- it is not as easy as dropping them off at someone else's doorstep and heading home for some peace and quiet. It can, however, have its advantages. After all, summer may seem to last forever, but if you really think about it, the summers that your kids will want to spend time doing stuff you are absolutely finite. Make memories while you can!

Before beginning any type of "create your own camp" experience with your kids, be sure to sit them down and explain your plans to them. You may want to include some of their ideas and suggestions into your plan for camp.

Once your camp is prepared, have the kids help to gather together all the things they will need for camp, just as you would if they were actually going away to a camp. If you are planning a week of camp from Mon-Fri, spend Sunday cleaning clothes and picking out outfits for the week. Plan meals, in advance, as well, and try to get as many chores and errands out of the way as you possibly can. Prepare as if you were about to leave on a vacation, so that you have extra time to devote to running your camp.

Post an itinerary and schedule for each day of camp. Be sure to establish a start and an end time before the beginning of camp, and if possible, keep a consistent time frame for the duration of the camp.

Select simple activities that you know your group can handle. Don't over schedule your day- you want the kids to have fun, but you don't want them to be exhausted!

Enlist the help of others, if possible and practical. Have Grandpa come over one afternoon and do an activity with the kids. Having more than one "counselor" will help round out the experience, and will give you a chance to rest!

CREATE YOUR OWN CAMP

2008-04-07T08:22:00.000-07:00

Summer looms large on the horizon, and most stay-at-home moms that I know, myself included, of course, have begun to worry, "what will I do will I do with the kids this summer?"

Summer camp seems a sensible solution to the problem of how to fill the unstructed days of summer, but if your budget is tighter than ever or you have more than a couple of kids, summer camp costs can be out of sight. To simply send my kids to a local traditional sleepover camp for the week would cost @650.00. If I were to send all of my camp age children, four out of five, I would be shelling out 2600.00 for one week!!!

So what's the solution? I could pick a name out of a hat to determine who gets to go, but likely this would create more chaos, and the point of camp is to curtail that. I was thinking to myself one day, how can I give my kids a camp experience without the expense? My aha moment- create my own camp!

Now, I'm not talking about starting an actual camp for children other than my own. I'm suggesting a little D.I.Y. to turn regular old summer weeks into camp weeks. You can do it too!

Check this section of my blog each week to find my suggestions to create a variety of camps for your children. The first in the series will be...Traditional sleepover camp

Rules of the Playground

2008-04-03T07:28:00.000-07:00

When we were kids, my brother and I often spent summer days organizing games of kickball. Someone gave us a set of four cream colored bases, and this inspired many afternoon kickball games with any and all willing neighborhood kids, and any of our cousins that we could convince our mom to pick up from their houses.

Before the game started, we always picked teams and determined rules. They were simple and basic. How many outs, how many innings, what would be considered foul, fair and a home-run.

Inevitably the winning team would always try to quit early, especially if it was a close game. Someone would always have to go help with dinner or take out the trash. The losers were no better. They would call for do-overs; try to trade teammates; and they would insist there were more innings left than there actually were.

Of course, the cardinal rule was, no changing the rules after the game starts, otherwise, "it's no fair" my brother would always say.

As an adult, I don't much play kickball. My kids play soccer, and basketball, and my boys love to wrestle. Kickball isn't so much the rage anymore it seems. Nevertheless, the rules of the games that my children play continue to be governed by the cardinal rule that you can't change the rules after the game starts.

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Since I live in Pa, I have been privy to much of what has been happening on the political playground lately as the candidates have been busy playing in my backyard. I can't help but notice how the "rules" on this playground continually change, even though the game started, and has been going for a long time now. Some members of the Democratic party seem unaware of the cardinal rule that makes playgrounds across the nation places where democracy reigns.
By constantly changing the rules according to what they think the score is, they act as bullies, trying to manipulate the game, instead of simply allowing the game to be played out- the winner determined fair and square.

They forget that...

1. Delegates are up for grabs until a nominee is chosen.

2. Super delegates are entitled to decide their vote at their own discretion.

3. The game ends at the Convention, as was predetermined before the whole process began.

And as for fouls...

1. Why is it the case that when Hilary Clinton surrogates claim to use information regarding reverend Jeremiah Wright to persuade super delegates its called "dirty politics" by Obama surrogates, but when those same people are asked about Chelsea being questioned on Monica Lewinsky, they say its fair ball?

Why is it that Senator Obama shouldn't be held accountable for his minister's remarks, but Senator Clinton should be held accountable for her husbands' misdeeds. Senator Obama could have easily walked away from his minister. Hilary Clinton was in a precarious position. There was no clear right or wrong for her in this personal matter. She did what many women do to make their marriages work- she forgave her husband. If perpetuating the humiliation that she suffered at his hands isn't dirty politics, than this is a game where all balls must be fair.

2. Why is it that Senator's Clinton's story about Sniper fire should be used to discredit her, but Senator Obama's misleading statements about hearing his pastor make offensive remarks is a non-issue? Either both misspoke, or they both lied.

What's more dangerous- an embellished war story or failing to admit that you have participated in an institution that promotes hate speech?

3. Why can Jeremiah Wright's remarks be explained away by Senator Obama? Why does it matter in what environment his comments were generated? The comments of Geraldine Ferraro were not forgiven or explained away. Why is context an explanation for Pastor Wright, but not for Geraldine Ferraro?

Perhaps the rules of the race need to be redefined. Since the game has already started, both candidates should keep on playing, according to the rules, until the game ends, or until someone decides (and is not bullied) to quit.

SIMPLE SALAD RECIPE

2008-04-01T07:52:00.000-07:00

When lunch time rolls around on a weekday, I am typically focused on preparing food for my one and five year old daughters. Like most moms I know, I would rarely fix something for myself for lunch. I would eat the leftover half of my older daughter's pb and fluff, or nibble on some crackers that I would also be feeding to the baby. Of course, by five o'clock, I would be absolutely starving, and at that point, I would shove anything into my mouth that I could lay my hands on- a stack of girl scout cookies; a chunk of cheese; several handfuls of pretzels.

I decided to start watching my weight shortly after the baby turned one at Christmas. No better time than the New Year. I decided that I would try to eat a healthy lunch everyday. At first, I found myself most often microwaving a healthy choice, or a lean cuisine, or a lean pocket. Then, my Mother drew my attention to the high sodium content in these meals.

When I went out to lunch, I loved to order a grilled chicken salad, but the thought of fixing those at home during the week seemed impractical. I didn't have time to slice and grill meat, chop lettuce; etc.

While at the grocery store one day, however, I realized that by buying a few convience items I could make a restaurant-like salad in nearly the same amount of time that it would take me to microwave a meal or make a peanut butter sandwich. Here is my recipe:

Ingredients:
Dole salad bag- I like the field greens variety
Craisins
Goat cheese
Pine nuts
Frozen chicken strips or beef strips; also you can buy grilled strips in the refrigerator section of your supermarket, if you prefer.
Vinaigrette dressing. I like Ken's Steak House Lite Raspberry Walnut Vinaigrette, which is 80 calories, and Neuman's Own Light Lime Vinaigrette, which is 60 calories.

Instructions:
Fill a plate with lettuce. Spoon craisins on top. Sparingly crumble goat cheese on to lettuce. Mean while, cook chicken or beef strips according to package directions. Use pam or a small amount of olive oil to coat pan. Strips can usually be microwaved as well, but they taste better when cooked on the stove top for about 3-4 minutes. Top salad with hot meat, salad dressing, and a sprinkle of nuts.

Enjoy with a nice glass of Perrier or pellegrino with lime. This lunch will taste good and energize you for the rest of the day. Take a couple of minutes to try it!

Markers do not equal Mayhem

2008-03-30T13:36:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite t.v. shows is Jon and Kate plus eight, which airs Monday nights at 9pm on TLC. In its second season, the show, which originally began as a special, has become fairly popular and well known, so I take it most moms are familiar. For those of you who haven't had the opportunity to see it, the show is a reality t.v. program which chronicles the lives of the Gosselin family of Pa, which is made up of mom and Dad, a.k.a Jon and Kate, and their twins Mady and Cara, and their sextuplets.

I first stumbled upon their special, one night while watching TLC. At the time, I was pregnant with my fifth, gulp, child, who was a bit of a whoopsee baby. Exhausted and uncertain of whether or not I would be able to handle a fifth child, I began to watch "Surviving Sextuplets and Twins", and immediately I started to feel better about my situation. If this couple, who lived only about forty minutes away from me, could take of six babies and five year old twins, surely I could take of my four, ages 12,8,5,and 31/2 and one baby!!!

The special was rerun many times before another special was produced. I almost ashamed to tell you how many times I watched the first special over and over again. When the second special came out, I was so excited. When I heard they were going to start a series based on these specials, which would be called, Jon and Kate plus eight, I was elated.

You see, I have never really been terrifically good at being organized. I'm a left brainer. I like to create. not clean up. Something about the smooth running of this family inspired me, however, and I began to look to the show for tips on how to do things better. At one point, I began to lament as to why I was so inadequate at being organized.

Since I have been watching the series, however, I have begun to realize, there are some benefits to being a little more laid back and a little less organized. Last week's episode, which featured the Gosselins going to the Crayola factory, was particularly eye opening.

Upon arriving at the Crayola factory, the Gosselins had lunch in a little cafeteria area. Jon was attempting to give the kids their lunch when he was scolded by Kate "you are getting ahead of yourself", she told him. "Vests off, bibs on" she barked to her husband so that he would first remove the children's vests and put bibs on them before giving them their food.

I do not know for certain what public opinion is about bib wearing, but most people that I know, myself included, probably stop using bibs for every meal sometime around age 21/2 to 3. These are kids are about three and a half. Why do they need bibs on to eat lunch?

Kate, their mother, would undoubtedly defend her desire for her children to use bibs during mealtime, with the same rationale she gave when asked by a crew member of the show, why she did not allow the children to use markers at the interactive stations of the Crayola factory?

Kate was unapologetic when she said that the children could not use markers, which Jon said were washable, because it would make for a long day in the laundry room for her. When her husband questioned her as to why she didn't dress the kids in play clothes for an outing to an arts and crafts outlet, she stated plainly, "I want the kids to look nice."

I must say that as much as I admire Kate's organizational abilities, I take issue with the fact that she is so complacent about her inability to let loose. Part of being a good parent is recognizing when to step back, let loose, and let the kids be independant. In this episode, Kate suggested the Crayola factory was not a place for her- "this is for relaxed people" she said. Sometimes, as a parent, you have to step outside of your comfort zone to allow your children to do things that they enjoy.

I think that Kate should be cautious about using her "hang ups" as excuses. Sometimes, kids need to get dirty. Oh and by the way, why would it take her an entire day to stain treat 6 or shirts? At five minutes a shirt, which is a very generous estimate, those shirts could have been sprayed with shout in under forty minutes. On the other hand, the memory of the trip, which ended with many of the kids having meltdowns, which Kate attributed to them having too much, but I would argue were more likely the result of them not being able to do enough, will last a lot longer. There are potentially serious effects of teaching children that they have to be perfect; that they can't get dirty; that things always "should" be a certain way . Read any book on anxiety and or panic disorder, and find out that many mental illnesses stem from being taught to think like perfectionist.

Look, I am not judging. I am far from perfect. If Kate saw my laundry room, she'd probably have a stroke. I confess that my one year old ate yogurt today without a bib on, and consequently, it is all over her white shirt. All I am saying is that while it is important to be organized, it is also important to let kids breathe. And if one shirt gets ruined in the process, life will go on.

My son wants his hair highlighted.

2008-01-31T20:07:00.001-08:00

Last year, the thing that he absolutely had to have, because "Mom you know everybody else's mom is letting them get one", was an iguana. I have to say that I'm not a real big fan of reptiles or amphibians, but I still didn't think that it would be fair for him to bring an iguana into our house just so that it could die of starvation and neglect. This was my argument. I guess it seemed logical enough because after a little while, the iguana became a moot issue in our household. Whew! bullet dodged.

This year everybody is getting their hair highlighted. What style is this boys? Skate punk, rock star, not entirely sure, but I think it might be a combination of the two. Of course, as an experienced mom I know that the word "everybody" does not mean "everybody", but in fact it means two or three kids who either are my best friends, or who I want to be my best friends. In this case, at the very least it is the former.

My initial reaction to this request was: are absolutely out of your mind? Under no circumstances will you have your hair higlighted. After all, Ethan is only nine. And then I began to think about it. Kids think that when parents say, I have to think about it, the answer will usually be no. As a parent, I know the opposite is true. Thinking about your children's requests is one of the most dangerous things that you can do as a parent. It almost always leads to some form of compromise where a parent says yes to something that initially she was completely opposed to, and then she starts thinking like a child and not an adult, and all of the sudden, the request seems reasonable, and she worries that she sounds like her mother...

Sadly, I can remember a summer during which my brother, several of my cousins, and I all had the same orangey-red hair color courtesey of a spray bottle of sun-in. I think that we were a little bit older. My brother, Tim was probably about fourteen, which means that I was twelve, my cousin Chris eleven, and I guess Kelly could have been nine. Sweet Jesus. I hate to be a hypocrite.

Not to mention, self-expression, no matter how stupid it may look is important to kids. Can still remember my first thanksgiving home from college. I came home on the train from Boston with my nose pierced. Tim, my aforementioned brother, picked me up at thirtieth street station in Philadelphia. "Laurie", he said, in a disguisted tone of voice. "Mom is going to flip out." Of course, he was right. I was sorry to ruin Thanksgiving, but I was even sorrier that my mom couldn't accept my choice.

Then again, I was not nine. I was twice nine. Nine is a little too young for highlights, eh? I think the solution is summer. I'll tell him that he has to wait for summer. School will frown upon highlights. Blaming the school will take the heat off me. Can't go wrong making the child hate school, right? Probably nothing new anyway. In any case, I'll just sit him down and say "look Ethan, in my day if we wanted highlights in our hair, we had to earn them by sitting in the sun with highlight spray on our hair. " If my son is going to have highlights, at least he should have to get them the old fashioned way.

My son wants his hair highlighted.

2008-01-31T20:07:00.000-08:00