Moving On Up

I've moved on up to a deluxe bloghost in the sky. I finally gave up on trying to create a template or changing anything on my blog. I don't have the skills. I've moved here. I'm still working on configuring the thing, but at least it's mine (sort of). I guess I'm a bougie blogger.

Boys to Men

My boys searched for a good fishing spot Saturday morning. Apparently three docks over the fish are more plentiful. It had nothing to do with the pretty little blonde girl they discovered the night before. When the boys returned Roy asked the oldest "Any luck?" Zach replied "No, she wasn't there." Roy and I exchanged amused glances and Roy said "I meant did you catch any fish." Zach blushed. We laughed. This past year has been hard on me as I've watched my son make the transition from boy to man. Victoria's Secret catalogues have gone missing to later turn up stuffed into an underwear drawer. Eyes have popped out of my son's head when hoochie girls pass by. Puberty has reared its ugly head and caught me by surprise. I thought I had more time. I thought this didn't start until boys were twelve. This stage so far has been harder than colic, endless poopy diapers, baby puke, countless sleepless nights, and helping him learn how to read. The girl part was just the surprising although kind of comical part of puberty. The hardest and foreign part has been the violence that comes with the testosterone. Zach had to stand up to a bully on the bus. A boy on the bus called Zach names. Zach being an unfortunate product of his gene pool couldn't just ignore the boy. He had to out do him. The crowd was with him and the laughter resulting from his cut downs egged him on. The boy frustrated at being so obviously outwitted turned to violence. As the bus dropped the kids off at the school he punched Zach in the stomach. Zach hit him back. They parted ways, but knew this would not be the end. Zach got into the car and relayed what had happened. The frustration, anger and fear so clearly evidenced in my son's face about killed me. My first reaction, although never voiced, was to not let him ride the bus ever again! Truthfully, if I did not have a husband that is probably exactly what I would have done. My husband being a man saw things differently. I deferred to him as this was his turf. He told my son that it was OK to be afraid. He told him that inspite of his fear he had to get back on the bus. He taught him how to fight. He told him that you had to stick up for yourself or that this boy would never leave him alone. Bullies like easy targets that don't fight back. He told him that even if he lost the fight he would survive. He ended by telling him that he was never to throw the first punch. He was never to start a fight. My father-in-law and my brother also added to the advice. This was a man thing and I had to step back and watch. Roy told me "He has to get on the bus. He has to conquer fear. Fear makes you do stupid things." So with sadness and fear and complete nausea I waited for Zach to get off the bus that day. It turned out that several parents had called in to complain about this boy so he was given an assigned seat and was not allowed to walk the school halls unaccompanied. I was so relieved that my son came home blood free. As a parent you want to protect your children. You don't want them to feel pain. You'd gladly take on all of their pain. Today I heard a story that best illustrates why you have to let your children experience pain. I'm sure you've heard this one, but here it goes. A women tried to ease the pain and struggle of a butterfly emerging from the Chrysalis. She helped it free itself. When the butterfly emerged it could not fly. It's wings were not strong enough. It needed the struggle to strengthen and open it's wings. Knowing this doesn't make it any easier.

Sins of War

Many questions will be asked in regard to Haditha. We know the Where and When. We will want to know the-What really happened? We'll want to know the- How did this happen.? Were the Marines stoned? We'll want to know the-Why did this happen? Did this happen because they are being trained and lead by men who say things like "......it's a hell of a lot of fun to shoot them."(Lt. Gen. James Mattis) Did the stress of war make them snap? And of course we will want to know the who? Who's responsible for this happening? The grunts, the officers, the administration, the Iraqis? The answer of course is we all share the blame. The horrible truth is things like this happen in war. It's outrageous and taps directly into evil. But, it happens in war. It has happened again and again. Yet each time a My Lai or Haditha occurs we are shocked. Let's not pretend that we do not know the truth about war. We know that little girls cry in anguish as they hold their dead mother's bloody bodies in war. Husbands and wives become widows. Children become orphans. Untrained, inexperienced yet battle weary people are put in positions of power with guns and yet we're surprised when atrocities occur. They become the worst part of all ourselves. So, we offer them up as a sacrifice for our collective sin. Peace, K Probing a Bloodbath-Newsweek

1.)Little Brothers 2.)The Sweet Nothings My Children Say to Me

1.)My little brother is coming to visit at the end of the month. His name is Travis A.K.A "T-ravis" A.K.A "T" A.K.A "JoJo" A.K.A "annoymous". He moved to LA last year. With one exception we have always lived no more than an hour and a half away from eachother. We moved a lot when we were young so often we had only eachother to play with. We have taken care of eachother over the years. I miss him a lot. My kids miss him a lot. Roy misses him(although he'd never admit it). I can't wait to see him. He will bring even more chaos to our house. My children will run through the house screaming as he chases them and gives them wedgies and swirly's (oh, wait Roy gave Zach the swirly). He'll teach them guitar. He'll call my daughter Billy, he is the only one who is allowed to call her that. My brother has this "cute" habit of changing my children's and dog's names. Zach is Max, JoJo is Mojo and Lily is Billy. My old dog Calvin was Melvin. He hates our new dog Indy so he hasn't renamed him. Many bodily functions will be involved. The word Bougie (or Bourgie) will be used several times. He will rant and rant about Bougies as he snuggles up in our bed and watches our plasma t.v. , with us in it too! He'll rail about how much it sucks OTP (outside the perimeter-of Atlanta). I will be the target for the witt warriors snipe. Try living with your own little brother and someone else's or just two men for that matter. I can take a joke though. A lot of women think that A) I'm too stupid to get that the jokes on me or B)that I'm a shrinking violet and abused. A Sunday School teacher of mine and Roy's one time said that she was worried about me. She said "I think that behind all the sarcasm and jokes there's some truth behind what he's saying." Well, duh otherwise it wouldn't be funny. Some people take themselves way too fucking seriously. I fear that I would too if it weren't for Roy and Travis. I would be some self-righteous asshole if not for them making me laugh at myself. So, we will laugh and play. It will be all fun and games until someone gets pissed. That will probably be the 2nd day. Then the novelty wares off and we revert back to our normal brother/sister relationship. We fight constantly. I'll start counting the minutes until his flight leaves. And then he will leave. And I will be sad. And I will miss him. 2.) Things I've been told this summer "You're a funsucker!!!!" "I hate you, you're the worst mother, I wish you were dead." To which I burst out laughing which enraged the child. Laughter was not the expected response. I hope the little bastards survive the summer. Oh, one more thing. I have joined the Summer Reading Challenge (I can't figure out how to put the damn button on!). I was going to try and finish "The Good Earth". I made it to page 176 and then started looking for razor blades. It just keeps getting more and more depressing. I have a Summer buzz going and that book may be too much of a buzz kill for now. I bought "Outlander" by Diana Gabaldon (at Dawn's suggestion) and Jodi Picoult's "Vanishing Act". So I'll see which one grabs my interest and post about it next week.

Cheesy Musical

If you've never watched the Disney channel than you may not be aware of a phenomenon rocking the nation. A new musical of pure cheesy goodness. If you are a dork like me and a big sucker for stories that have characters breaking out in song in the middle of the gym or cafeteria then "High School Musical" is the cheese fest for you. It's the story of two teens, the basketball star and the academic club star that secretly audition for the school's musical. The message is obvious(acceptance and being yourself) and the story very familiar(Disneyfied "Grease"), but it's oddly addictive. The songs stick in your head. A minute ago I heard my daughter singing "Bop, bop, bop till you drop". My boys have been heard singing "Getcha, getcha head in the game". They begrudingly admit that they like the movie. The DVD even shows you the dance moves. My kids won't let me watch that part in fear of actually watching me (or worse their friends watching me) do the dance moves. It's no "Grease", but I'm not sure I want my kids singing the lyrics to songs like "Greased Lightning". Remember these lines: "You are supreme the chicks'll cream for grease lightning" or "You know that I ain't bragging she's a real pussy wagon" Of course, I remember singing these very same words at the top of my lungs in my basement during our countless renditions of "Grease". I had no idea what any of it meant. Just the same it's kind of nice to have something that's wholesome without being so sweet it gives me a toothache or makes me want to barf. Wouldn't life be easier to take if you could break out in song to express your every emotion. My husband says the next fight we have he's going to break out in song. I dare him.

Lazy Days of Summer

I love summer. I know that in a couple of weeks, OK days, OK tomorrow I'll be writing about how I can't wait until school starts, but today I'm in the romance stage of summer vacation. My oldest went to White Water with a friend. Hmmm, maybe that's why my stress level dipped. Anyway, LG had her last ballet class. I told JoJo that he could go swim with his cousins and he said that he'd rather stay with me. We saw Roy outside the ballet studio and he told JoJo that he could go with him to Dick's Sporting Goods, but he said that he'd rather stay with me. He chose me. My daughter's ballet studio is off the Marietta Square. Joe and I went to the park on the square while we waited for her. We threw pennies in the fountain. We took pictures. We just hung out. When you have three kids it's hard to get individual time with them. Below are pictures of the Marietta Square. Our life revolves around this square. My husband's office is on the square, Lily Grace's ballet studio, my in-law's live on Church St. less than a mile from the square, and our church is across the street from the square. Roy's office is in this building.

It's Not Personal?

A friend of mine who I will refer to as "Little Type A" got me thinking about taking things personally when she mentioned a scene in the movie "You've Got Mail". Joe Fox:It wasn't... personal. Kathleen Kelly: What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn't personal to you. But it was personal to me. It's *personal* to a lot of people. And what's so wrong with being personal, anyway? Joe Fox: Uh, nothing. Kathleen Kelly: Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal. I've thought a lot about this and I agree with Little Type A and the fictious Kathleen Kelly. When we interact with one another it should be personal. Our actions should be tempered with the awareness that the receiver is a person. From the waiter you treat with hostility for getting your order wrong to the homeless man begging on the streets, they are all human beings under neath it all. When my husband and I go downtown my husband gets his "bum money"(his words not mine)ready. He places money in his front pocket so that he will not have to get his wallet out. I know that people say you shouldn't give the homeless money because they'll just go buy booze or something with it. Roy and I say so what. Who are we to judge? Here's where my husband so surpasses me as a good person that I kind of hate him a little. One homeless man in particular creeps me out. He is dirty and smelly and I race past him, but then I have to stop. Roy gives the man the money but, talks to him and looks him in the eye like he's a person. He makes it personal. I try to remember to make it personal when I'm standing in line at the grocery store and I'm in a hurry and the check out person is going on and on about something or other. I try to make it personal when I go to my son's school and call each child by name. I try. I stumble a lot. I still haven't made eye contact with Roy's homeless man, but I've stopped running. I've slowed down and stepped outside of my comfort zone a tip toe at a time. My son's first grade teacher taught them that the word encourage means "to put the courage in someone". By making it personal we can do that a little at a time.

MotherGooseMouse Music Contest

Give this a try. I got a grand total of three. Just try and top that.

Bike Helmets, Hospitals, and Chuck E. Cheese, Oh My

Every morning begins the same for me. I wake my children and then walk Zombie like downstairs "Must have coffee, must have coffee." I glare at the pot to brew faster and sleep walk through making breakfast. The rest of the morning is a mad dash to get the children out the door. Conversation between us consists of grumblings and grunts with the exception of the middle one who is a morning person. He wakes up bright eyed and bushy tailed and begins a stream of constant chatter. I feel really bad because I have no idea what he is telling me. I simply grunt and nod appropriately. He's probably sharing the secret to life or who killed JFK or who really built the pyramids, or that as I have long suspected he is an alien from a galaxy far far away sent here to observe us puny earthlings so they can enslave us in the near future. The husband is upstairs taking a marathon shower not because he's revisiting his teenage years, but because he reads a book in the shower. Yes, he does read in the shower and yes it is possible. And yes I hate him for the luxury of waking slowly in a warm shower and reading a book. We have tried having him help get the kids ready but, he is a complete idiot in the morning and I have the urge to plunge sharp objects into him so, he has his shower. Yes, I know that his mentally deficient routine is most likely an act to get his way, but I'm too tired to care. Once, the "men" have left and caffeine pumps through my bloodstream slowly making mommy monster disappear I become a functioning human. While, LG watches cartoons I read, or surf the internet, or read blogs. Ideas, big ideas from blogs, magazines,newsservices, and even Sponge Bob germinate. Rages and rants formulate on issues from immigration, war, the president, religion, education, gay marriage (that really did come from Sponge Bob)and many many topics. It doesn't take much to get my ire up. I usually have several posts sketched out before the end of the day. Then I step outside of the virtual world and the walls of my home for the real world. Suddenly a new desire takes over and I'm compelled to write the stories of the everyday. An encounter, a conversation ,or an observation wills me to write of it or of an experience remembered because of it. In the introduction to her book "Thinking Out Loud" Anna Quindlen (who by the way is my personal hero)writes "I was more interested in writing about the small moments in people's lives than in covering a presidential press conference." "....we believed writing about those matters was as important for readers as the world events we had been offering them on page one." That's kind of what bloggers do isn't it? So, anyway here's the moments that grabbed me yesterday. First, I listened to a mother recount her daughter's fall from her bicycle and resulting head injury. Abby's bike tire went off the sidewalk and sent her flying off of her bike landing on three different spots on her head. The fall broke her helmet in half and a chunk of the helmet came off as well. Abby was taken to the emergency room even though she had none of the danger signs of a head injury. She could talk, walk, she was awake, she could see fine, etc. The hospital ran a cat scan anyway. The findings were surprising and she was rushed to Atlanta's children's hospital. For thirty six hours her family waited to see if she would be OK. Thankfully, she will be fine and is at home. I got chills as I looked into Kelly's eyes as she told her story and saw the mix of terror and gratitude. I know she wishes she could roll her in a bubble wrap and never leave her side. I know that she also knows she can't cripple her daughter with fear. God, how it hurts to be a parent at times. Make your children wear their helmets. If Abby hadn't, she would be dead. The Second moment came when my husband and I visited his secretary Linda in the hospital. Linda has worked with Roy for about twelve years now. She is like family. Linda is a sweet, kind, and intuitive person. She has no children or husband. Roy is like a surrogate son. She and I chat like old friends when I come to visit. She paints my daughter's fingernails when she visits. Most importantly Linda gets the day shift with Roy. I tell her when she tells me to call him home "Oh no, you get him until 5:30. We love Linda. Linda's lung collapsed and her heart moved out of place. The doctors are amazed that she is alive. She is now in hospital limbo waiting for the doctors to figure out what to do with her. Linda is amazing. She felt horrible but was still cheery and grateful. Linda has no family in town. She has a couple of girlfriends who stay the night with her. Her room was ugly and drab. Roy bought posters to give her a nice view instead of the boards outside her window. He rearranged her flowers. He brought her a framed 8x10 of himself to set on her tray. He moved furniture around. The nurses came in and asked "Who did this?" Linda replied "My boss." This is why I let the man read his book in the shower every morning. Hopefully, today we will find out more about her situation. She is a great person. If you pray think of her today. My day ended yesterday at Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate my son's birthday. All I have to say about Chuck E. Cheese is thank God they serve beer!

You Say It's Your Birthday

It's not my birthday too, but it has been my nephew's, my husband's, my friend's,my stepsister, my stepmother, my niece and today is my son's. I am surrounded my Taraus and Geminis. By the end of May the sight of birthday cake makes us want to vomit. This morning before school my son blew out a candle on his waffles and opened presents. I still can't believe he's 8. Like most mothers I think of the day he was born on his birthday. I do spare him the actual "I suffered and suffered and suffered to bring you into this world" saga. For me his birth story is one that brings feelings of anger that have only lessened with time. I hold grudges though and if I ever see the no show doctor or the Mid-wife from hell that delivered my son I may still run them over with my car. I went into labor the evening before. I knew that this was the real deal because our dog sat on the bed panting furiously and hovering over me. Around 10 o'clock my water broke. I was so glad because I knew the hospital would have to admit me. Unfortunately, my excruciating contractions were not productive and pitocin (the devil's drug)was needed. I insisted on getting an epidural, morphine, heroin, anything else they wanted to give me was cool with me. I don't do pain well. Whatever epidural cocktail they gave me knocked me out for hours. Finally, I woke up in the morning to pain. Wait, wait I don't do pain. I panicked and had my husband tell the nurse that my epidural had worn off. She came in checked me and said it would be time to push soon. EPIDURAL WORN OFF!! I reminded her. She told me that was not possible and left the room. I'm trying not to freak out. Roy see's the crazed look in my eyes and tries not to panic or flee. He is afraid of me with good reason since I bit (yes bit)him when I was in labor with our first son. He attempts to find someone who will come sedate or medicate his lunatic wife, but finds no one. The nurse finally comes back , checks me again and says OK you're ready. "What about another epidural" I try not to scream. "Oh, you're fine, you're just feeling the urge to push. Besides, it's too late for another epidural now." I'm seriously pissed and in major pain, but try and tell myself that I can get through this. A flutter of activity enters my room. I hear things like "I can't find the doctor!" "He decided to do a C-section early" "Where's another doctor" "There aren't any other doctors available." Nurses run frantically in and out of my room. Roy looks green. He looks like "I'm going to yak if I have to deliver this baby and then I'm going to kick some doctor ass." The contractions are so strong that I don't care if the janitor delivers this baby. Just get him out of me!!!! Enter Cruella de Midwife. Cruella comes in orders everyone around. I am beside myself with pain. Tears are running down my face and I'm sobbing hysterically. The midwife tells me that if I don't stop crying she's going to leave. As a special kind of torture not only does Cruella mock my pain, by telling me that my epidural has not worn off but, adds to it by pinching me and asking me what she had just done. "You pinched me, get your hands off of me" I screamed. She tosses a "oh I guess her epidural really did wear off" look to her minions. Somehow, my sweet boy is delivered. He was perfectly normal and healthy except for one thing. His right foot was bent back to the side and up so that almost touched his leg and it was an ugly blackish-blue color. The weird thing is Roy and I didn't notice. When the pediatrician told us not to worry about his foot that we would just have to exercise it back into place we nodded OK, great, but thought "what the hell is wrong with his foot?" Our family worried and grilled the pediatrician. They feared the doctor was softening the blow. Maybe my mind wouldn't let me go there, but it never once occurred to me that his foot wouldn't be fine. We (mostly Roy because I was afraid I'd break his foot), twisted JoJo's foot around daily as instructed. Within a few weeks his foot straightened out. He's never had a problem with his foot since. He has grown into a wild wonderful daredevil whom I can't imagine life without.

Second Star

"Second (star)to the right and straight on till morning." That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland. -J.M. Barrie My husband grew up boating. As a family we have boated for about three years now. Our new boat was delivered last weekend. We have waited for over six months for this boat to be built. You would have thought it was Christmas morning as we ran down the dock to catch our first glimpse of the new boat. I watched as peace settled over Roy. You see boating is not just a hobby for him, it's a religion. A lot of people don't understand the attraction to boating. They see a boat as cramped quarters, work, and a money pit. An RV or trailer on water. It is all of these things and more. Boating makes me know that I am alive. You have to react immediately on a boat. You don't have time to over think. You are the moment. For someone with reflexes like molasses boating is a challenge. When we sail off we never know what the day will bring. We do know that it will be a day lived without the distractions of our regular life. For a little while we will escape. We will be a family. Time is calling our children away from us. It seems as if we only have minutes with the oldest. Boating allows us to seize the precious time we have left with our children. It allows our worlds to intersect. We cast off to have adventures together. We named our new boat "Second Star". For us she is the way our family can journey to the Neverland, together.

Storytelling

When my children were little I made up stories for them. Sometimes I told them stories to keep them from crying in the car or to get them to sleep at night. Sometimes they would climb up in a chair with me, snuggle up and demand a new story. Eventually they became verbal enough to add to my stories or even weave their own. Some stories they liked and some they didn't. The story below began as an oral story at bedtime. The stories that received repeat requests I wrote down. In this story I chose the name Jack because I thought it was a clever combination of my boy's names Zach and JoJo. Neither were fooled and both recognized the boy in the story as my Zach. So, anyway here it is: Our story begins “Once upon a time” (as all good stories begin , of course), there was a boy named Jack who couldn’t fall asleep. He tossed and tossed and tossed and he turned and turned and turned. He didn’t dare call for his mom or dad since he had long since used up his bedtime excuses. Mom had given him one more kiss. Dad had brought him a glass of water. Mom and Dad had come in to check the room for monsters (if only they had found his monster, Hubert, bedtime could have been stalled for at least another hour. Hubert, however, never came out when mom and dad came in to the room and Hubert was way to hyper when they were alone. Anyway, that’s another story. Jack, a creative child, was just plain out of ideas and time. It was time to think fast. “You are getting very sleepy”, Jack told himself over and over. Hypnotizing himself was not working. He was still wide awake. Jack closed his eyes and made a wish. All of the sudden the wind howled through Jack’s room spraying sand everywhere. The force of the wind sent Jack’s toys, pillows, and blanket sailing past him. Jack himself rose from his bed and circled the room below him as if he were in a mini-tornado. He thought for sure he was going to burst through the roof. Just when he thought he was going to blow away and never be heard from again, the wind settled. Jack slowly floated back to his bed. The toys, blankets, and pillows dropped to the floor. Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. Mounds and mounds of sand blanketed his entire room, and standing in the middle of the largest mound was a figure cloaked in a rainbow colored robe. Jack stood suddenly in his bed in amazement. His wish must have come true. The person before him that brought in the sand storm could only be the Sandman!!! Oh! He was saved! Achooo!! The Sandman sneezed a sandy sneeze all over Jack. “Oh my! Excuse me”, exclaimed a decidedly feminine voice. “Bless you”, Jack muttered both surprised and very irritated. “Let me clean you up” She pulled an enormous feather duster, the size of Jack from one of her many bags and began dusting Jack from head to toe. “Stop, I’m fine thanks”, Jack sputtered. “Who are you?” Jack demanded. “Oh no, did I get the address wrong. This is the 5th red brick house on the left side of the street and you are Jack?” “Well yes it is and I am Jack” “Well than you should know who I am since you wished for me.” “I wished for the sandman”, explained Jack. “Yes, Yes I’m the Sandman.” “But you’re a girl!” Jack exclaimed. “You can’t be a Sandman” “I am a Sandwoman” “But, but , but” Jack stammered. “Jack no one said the Sandman had to be a man. So Jack either you can learn to be flexible and give me a try or you’re on your own.” “Jack go to bed,” Jack’s mother yelled in quite a harsh tone. “By the sound of your mother’s voice she has lost all patience and to tell you the truth I’m in a bit of a hurry. You see I have many other children to see tonight. My next job is a bit tricky as the little girl lives in Spain. My wing has torn which makes an already difficult flight rather bumpy if not impossible not to mention my Spanish is very rusty. So if you’re sure a Sandwoman won’t get the job done I’ll be on my way.” “Wait!” Jack yelled. “I could give you a try” “Well that’s awfully big of you, Jack.” “Shall we get started then?” Jack nodded his head. “First we must give you a rather large piece of chocolate.” “Chocolate?” Jack yelled. “Mama says that chocolate has caffeine and caffeine will keep me up all night.” “Oh well if you don’t want any we could skip that step I suppose.” “I myself can never turn down chocolate.” “Well maybe just a little piece won’t hurt” “Open wide”, the Sandwoman said as she pulled out the biggest chocolate bar that Jack had ever seen. “That will never fit inside my mouth” Jack exclaimed. “Oh, Jack I believe your mouth is exactly the right size.” Jack opened his mouth as wide as he could and to his surprise he swallowed the whole thing in one bite. It was the most delicious chocolate he had ever tasted and it warmed him to his toes. “Now let’s move to step two. Lie down and open your eyes as big as you can.” “Open my eyes, but Daddy says to close my eyes.” “Jack, please let me do my job.” Jack opened his eyes wide in response. “Open them, wider Jack wider.” “Wait , “ Jack suddenly yelled. “Jack, honestly this is going to take until morning if you don’t--- “I know, but your wing, it’s torn. How will you fly across the Atlantic Ocean , it’s humungous. You’ll never make it.” “Don’t worry Jack, I’ll be alright.” “I can help, said Jack.” He sprung from his bed and ran to his bathroom. When he came back his hands were full and he set to work on the Sandwoman’s tattered wing. “There, Jack said, that should hold you until you can get it fixed properly.” Jack used all of his favorite purple band-aids to patch the tear in her wing. “Jack that’s wonderful!!! That should do the trick. Now I will have a smooth ride across the Atlantic. Goodness knows how I get a little airsick on bumpy flights. You saved me Jack. Now back to you! Hold your eyes very wide! Yes, yes that’s it Jack.” She then sprinkled dust on Jack’s head and he began to wiggle and wiggle. “Oh- that’s the wrong dust. Let’s try this one.” The sandwoman poured dust from a new pouch and Jack began to giggle and giggle. He shook so hard from his own giggles that he thought he might fall out of bed. “Oh no that will never do. What about this sack?” Yes this should work.” The dust from this sack made Jack stretch his arms and legs. She poured dust from several pouches and Jack blinked his eyes and then with the next pouch he yawned big yawns. Soon Jacks blinks were farther and farther in between until they were no more. Jack’s yawns’s slowed so that he could mutter ‘thank you” and then his yawns turned to snores. With Jack snoring the Sandwoman spread her wings whispered “sleep well, Jack” and flew out the window towards Spain where a sleepless little girl awaited her.

Skater Girl and Boy

Last night was skate night for my son's elementary school. Roy and I usually spend the evening helping our youngest skate. By helping I mean carry/drag around the rink while trying to remain balance a top four little wheels ourselves so that we don't tumble to the floor in a tangled mass of arms, legs, and skates. Yes, it would be easier to walk instead of skate the rink with our children, but where's the challenge in that? Besides if I'm at a roller rink, I'm skating. It's the one physical thing I do well, not great, but well. Our children on the other hand suck! I mean really suck. My oldest looks like a pigeon toed duck. He insists on skating with his legs as far apart as possible and his toes pointing inward. My middle one is content to have us drag him like dead weight in a sitting position. We tried to convince him that no one skates sitting down. It's really too soon to tell about the little one. She's really only tried once, but she is extremely cautious. Roy and I love to skate. He went to many skate nights in elementary school and I in my boy crazy middle school years frequented the local roller rink. My father-in-law bought the whole family skates for Christmas one year. Until, we started having children we would skate every vacation. Few grown-ups I've noticed, actually skate at skate night. Last night our children didn't skate either. The rink has a new indoor playground that they spent their time on instead. So, Roy and I skated together. We even held hands, although, I was nervous about this as I took Roy down the last time I touched him while skating. I'm kind of a brute for a little woman. We skated by a woman who knew us (in the we attended the same church for many, many years kind of way). She said "I had to do a double take because I couldn't believe it was you two. You have blown my image of you. I thought you were this yuppie/preppy couple. We could actually hang together." Roy and I exchanged a look that said "not on a bet". It's funny the perception people have of you. They get a snapshot and think they have the big picture. I promise you that in certain circles in our town yuppie/preppy is never used in reference to us. I guess the upside is that we always keep people guessing. Whatever, we had fun skating and singing 'Cause the walls start shaking The earth was quaking My mind was aching And we were makin it and you - Shook me all night long Yeah you shook me all night long Nothing like the poetic stylings of ACDC and roller skates to put a smile on your face.

Mother's Day Sucks

I hate mother's day. It is painful for me on many levels. The highest ranking pain I have archived deep within the files of my brain, my estrangement from my mother. From the day to day I have come to terms with the reality of my relationship with my mother. Mother's day comes along and the pain surfaces into conspicuous view. I am a motherless child. Mother's day adds yet another disconnect to my ever growing list. The pain stems not from loss but from the separateness created by a mother daughter relationship closer to that of Cinderella and her stepmother. Mother's day singles me out as different. Once I successfully dodge or repress that pain I move on to the pain in the ass of the day itself. Everyone pretends it's your day too. The truth is their is only so much time in one day and our mothers or mother-in-laws have seniority. I suggest we have an after Mother's day celebration with lots of alcohol and girls only. Yeah like we have the time for that. Mother's day is usually spent in a harried attempt to make our mothers feel appreciated and squeezing in a couple minutes to let your children appreciate you. The one thing I do like about Mother's day is the "My Mom" fill in the blank sheet that my children filled out in 4 year old pre-school. Here's a sampling from all three at age four: While I'm at school my mom _________________________. Zach- runs errands JoJo--washes stuff Lily Grace--works on her computer. She likes her blog. Hair and eye color __________________ All three correctly said brown eyes and brown/blonde hair Favorite food ____________________ Zach--salad JoJo--Mexican Lily Grace--spinach ravioli My mom looks pretty _______________________. All three prefer me in a dress and the middle one added when she takes a shower. The thing she likes to do most is __________________________. All three answered play with me. I love to see what they think of me.

A) Freak B) Geek C) Normal D) all of the above

We took our kids to see the movie "RV". The movie provided enough slapstick and potty humor to entertain the children. Mine love the potty humor particularly because they know how much I hate it. Especially, when a word for a bodily function is used, which to me is the real "F" word. The movie is about a family traveling in an RV across country. At an RV park the normal family meets a freakish family who tour year round in their RV and hold impromptu hootanannies complete with banjo and tambourine. The normal couple spends most of the movie trying to shake the hollering hillbillys. At first I thought that would so happen to us. We'd get stuck with freaks. A few minutes later I had an epiphany. An oh man epiphany, not one of those alleluia types. One where you realize that you're a self-righteous dumbass. One where you realize you are the freaks. I looked at Roy and said "We're the freaks." He looked at me with an uncomfortable grin and said "Yeah, I know." Just substitute air guitar for banjos, headbanging for tambourine and "Bohemian Rhapsody" for twangy country. If "Bohemian Rhapsody" comes on no one is spared our "Wayne's World" (I know we're not even original)rendition. Even our children and niece and nephews join us to the wide-eyed "awe" of the uninitiated. I could probably accept our freakishness if we were straight up full on freaks. We are always on the fringe. We just can't commit to one set. We are complete misfits. We aren't like those who wallow in their counter cultureness and yet remarkably all hang together and all wear the same clothes like a uniform thus forming their own clique. We aren't cool enough to be hipsters. We're not fond enough of the color black to be goth, although we can claim two piercings and one tattoo between the two of us. And I really, really want to get a very subtle streak of red or purple in my hair. We aren't Biff and Muffy enough to be country club, but we do belong to one. Basically, we've paid a lot of money for extreme snarking opportunities. We're too slack to be the Alpha family or as I call them the Stepfords. We're not academic enough to be intellectuals. We're not techie enough to be geeks (well Roy might be). The truth is on a whole we're moderates in a world full of extremists. So the answer is D)all of the above.

The S@$% I Have to Put Up With

The following was an email I received from my ex-business partner: Kim, Thanks for your response to my note. I am going to talk to --- about the legal issues you mentioned. I don't want an agreement that would leave either of us vulnerable to liability. The financial aspect we agree on, but the legalese must be worked out to both of our satisfaction. If we can't, I am okay with dissolving. I am at the point where I realize I have to let go of "my will" and seek only God's will. I will be leaving today to visit family in ---------. I will get back Monday night and will be in touch next week. Regarding our friendship, I want you to know that I am sorry for any hurt I have caused you. I didn't see any way for us to remain friends and pursue Sophia also. I feel the loss and it has not been easy. I know that we can't be what we were, but it does not make it easier. In my heart I have a high regard for you and your family. I will always remember the good times we shared and the meaningful conversations about life and God and family and everything in between. You are a special woman with a strong heart for God. Peace to you and your family.

Crashing Plates

I've been the plate twirler this week trying to keep all my little plates from crashing to the floor. My husband told me that my readers are annoyed that I haven't posted since Monday. By readers he meant him since I'm not exactly "Dooce". So here's the past couple of days in my life as a post. Not exactly riveting, but the best I can do since I have lived with incessant noise in the house (and not my head). -Bought many ridiculous items for Teacher appreciation week. Why can't we take up a collection and give the teacher a really nice gift certificate instead of plying them with meaningless crap every freaking day? -Purchased food essentials like coffee and poptarts -Researched new curriculum to be introduced at my children's school next year. -Held up under little girl interrogation from Lily Grace's friends who came home from school to play. (I foolishly thought that having playmates would allow me to catch up on really important things, like you know, reading blogs and posting on mine.) Here's a sampling from the little interogator: Little girl: Who are those men in your house? Me: They're contractors. Little girl: What are they doing here? Me: They're remodeling my bathroom. Little girl: Well, how much is that going to cost? Me: I wish I knew. Little girl: Who is that lady? Me: She's my housekeeper, she keeps are house clean. Little girl: My mom cleans our house she doesn't need a maid. Me:Look, little girl don't judge me! She then skipped off to join the other two girls who had started practice for their band "Blue Tigers". One played an obnoxious, migraine inducing drum machine (who was the idiot who bought that? Oh yeah, that was me) Another played elecric guitar. They all screeched incoherent vocals into microphones emitting jolting feedback. And the contractors added to the cacophony with their hammering and drilling. I kept my mouth shut when the girls mother who I really do like, showed up wearing her "W" hat and did I mention her car is plastered with Bushie stickers. Even republicans I know can't believe how f#$%*ed up this administration is. By the way I am completely non-partisan. The next day I had to leave the house but, first I had to get my bra and panties out of my closet which can only be accessed through the bathroom where the contractors lay in wait to hold me hostage to their needs, like validating their manhood (not in that way you sick puppy). Why is it that men need you to tell them "Good Job" for simple tasks? I don't have time to stroke your ego, I barely have time to stroke my husband's and he at least keeps me in shoes. I'm not your mommy or your wife or girlfriend. I successfully dodged the actual contractor, but had to make small talk with his 83 year old uncle who sits on a bucket amidst the rubble that once was my bathroom. He told me stories of working for Arnold Shwarznegger and I was dutifully impressed. Crap. The contractor caught me sneaking out of the house and wanted to know if I had a chance to look at the bathroom to see what he'd done. Instead of saying what I was thinking which was "You mean the three tiles you laid?", I yelled, "Yeah it looks great" and ran out the door before he told me that I had to go get a faucet for the bathtub or he'll have to stop work for the day even though he had only been there for 23 minutes and the whole damn floor needed to be tiled, light fixtures moved, etc. etc. Or he might tell me that "If it's all right with you , I'm going to bag putting the toilet back in because it's really hard". I then picked up my daughter, grabbed something to eat with my friend and her daughter, had fun quickie conversation interrupted by bathroom requests, raced to ballet to pick up costumes for recital and receive make-up and hair instructions from Miss Irene, the ballet instructor who the kids love, but frightens the parents. I Say a silent prayer for my mother-in-law since the costume requires sewing, what Miss Irene dismissed as a few tacks, which I'm sure is simple if you knew what the hell she's talking about. Miss Irene then made up the girls faces in the required fashion. I stifled my "what adorable little hookers" comment because Miss Irene does not find me amusing and since she has an uncanny resemblance to the dancing hippos from "Fantasia" I know I would get my ass kicked. The girls are so busy admiring themselves in the mirror that they can't focus on their dance. They were really adorable. I drop my daughter off at my mother-in-laws and then go to my son's teachers baby shower. I bite my tongue in half as the other mothers tell her that she has to breast feed even if she feels like her nipples are being pulled off with pliers and become nothing but bruised and bloody stumps because after that it's euphoric. Yeah, whatever. I pick up my boys and go out to dinner with my family and in-laws. I have two Margaritas at dinner. The combination of margaritas, running non-stop since 7 that morning, and keeping my smart mouth shut is too much for me and I go to bed at 8:30. Oh, and although it took me two days to read I finished two articles in the New Yorker. Yes, I read the New Yorker because I find all other magazines such drivel. Not. I finished the latest In Style last week. I do on occasion pick up a copy of the New Yorker. The article was titled "Media Me" and promised a tale of how a generation's obsession with online self-profiling turned to big business. It turned out that it was just a profile of Facebook.com, a social directory for college students created by a Harvard student. I'm sorry but another story about yet another young computer genius turned uber millionare is kind of a yawn. The other article was titled "Title Nine Babies". I thought that would be more interesting but, it just profiled girl golfers and barely referenced how Title Nine affected them. Sometimes when I read the New Yorker I admit it I don't get it. I feel like Elaine on Seinfeld when she goes to the New Yorker office demanding that they explain the cartoons. Now I have to go get dolled up. I have a hot date with my husband. Every Thursday is date night. We usually go to movies. We're movie junkies. Tonight, we're going to try that thing where you go someplace sit down, and eat and talk to eachother. We were in the mood for stimulating conversation and a romantic dinner. Well, OK we've seen every movie worth watching so we kind of don't have a choice. Speaking of movies last week we saw "American Dreamz". It was hysterical. So I'm going to let the plates crash to the floor and go have fun.

Hairy Morning

Hair is a major issue in our house. My boys in particular have a strong aversion to brushes, scissors,combs, razors, basically anything touching their precious locks. I suspect that is why they have adopted the seventies shaggy hair now popular with high schoolers and frat boys. The problem is my boys have bush heads with unruly hair that grows up and out instead of down. They end up with a white boy fro or resembling a chia pet. I'm fine with their expression of style or laziness as long as they let me trim when they start looking like a shaggy dog. Last night, having reached the shaggy dog stage I cut their hair. I cut their hair because taking them someplace is not worth the frustration and histrionics that ensue, besides I basically just wave the scissors around their big fat heads. So, I hogtied the middle one to a chair and cut his hair. He looked in the mirror and foam oozed from his mouth, his head spun around three or four times, his eyes glowed red, and in a venom laced satanical pitch said to me "You are the worst mother. I look like a dork." To which I replied in my best witch voice (which really sucks and is no match for my little spawn of satan)"All part of my evil plan, my pretty." The day went on and he forgot about his hair and even snuggled with this year's recipient of the Mommie Dearest Award. Then the morning came. He was fine until he looked in the mirror after washing the maple syrup from his face. Then JoJo left and Damien of last night returned. He screamed, cried, stomped his feet and refused to go to school. My husband and I looked at eachother, "WTF?" Finally, when nothing else could stop the tantrum, my husband got out the elecric razor and told him to get in the car or he was buzzcut and military school bound. He did but remained hyterical all the way to school. My husband pulled over to the side of the road near the school to try and help Joe get a grip. He had his back to the window as he talked Joe down. After several minutes he heard a horn honk and the unmistakable bleet of siren that the police use to get your attention next to him. "Is everything OK, sir?" the policeman inquired. "Ummm, yes, we're just having a bad hair day." Roy responded. "You or him?" the officer asked. "Him" Roy answered. The officer cracked a tiny grin which my husband was thankful for since Marietta's finest is not exactly known for its sense of humor. He feared the officer would never believe that the hysterics my son produced all stemmed from a bad hair cut. Maybe he had kids. Roy calmed JoJo down enough to take him to school. He called me rattled by both JoJo and his run in with the law. Nothing like a child and his hair obsession to make people think you're a child abuser. I now see why so many moms revert to buzzcuts.

The Big Yellow Bus

I road a big yellow school bus yesterday. I can't remember the last time I was on one. I know that it could have been yesterday (and not the 20 plus years it must have been) if the bus was my only indicator as to the passage of time. I chaperoned a field trip for my second grader. The field trip was uneventful. The children were nice and polite, saying yes mam and thank you. They all were eager to share things about themselves. Johnesha wants to be a principal, J'Avon wants to be a policeman, Jessica wants to be a school counselor. The children behaved, spoke, and looked like any other children, but they weren't like any children I've ever known. As a little girl I lived in Southfield, a suburb of Detroit. I went to a school that I thought had the same socioeconomics as the school my son now attends. I was wrong. I thought I knew poor because I lived in a tiny two bedroom house and shared one of those bedrooms with my brother until I was 9. My parents were children of fathers that did in fact wear a blue collar to work in the auto industry. My father commuted an hour away to Selfridge Air Force Base and my mother worked part time as a hairdresser to make ends meet. They struggled, but we never went hungry, we always had clean clothes,toys, and books to read. I didn't know poor, I knew middle class. J'Avon pointed out the street he lived off of as the bus passed by. My heart sank as we passed the decrepit housing development known as Baptist town. Johnesha, the little girl snuggled up beside me,said "There's my uncle". A few others called out that they too lived on the streets we passed. J'Avon told be that his neighborhood was so bad they called it B-town. My heart broke as I thought of the reality that waited for them as they stepped off the school bus later that day. When we first sent our son to this school, we knew the demographic. We worried that it would be an influence on him. It has. He has blossomed as a student, artist, and most importantly as a human being. Critics of the school (mostly those who never stepped foot inside the school)say that it is impossible to educate children with such disparities of advantage. I admit I wasn't sure it was possible. I thought that we would be gone after this year. The school's promise recited every morning gives incite into how the school is proving everyone wrong. I'm a member of the West Side Team. I do my best in everything. I'll be responsible for myself And help anyone who needs my help. Respect and cooperate, Work hard and don't be late. West Side's great for me and for you! The principal, Ms. Darby believes that expectations become a self-fufilling prophecy. They set the bar high and enable the students to reach it. The message is loud and clear, you are able and we've got your back. For those who need data as proof West Side has the following test scores for the advantaged -100 in Reading and 97 in Math. I would have never guessed that the children I sat with on the big yellow bus lived in B-town and to me that's proof that the message is being heard. Now if we can just get the message out to the rest of the community.

Career Day

My son told me that they needed more parents to set up booths for Career Day at his school. So I told him I'd check with my secretary and see if I could fit it in. OK so maybe you shouldn't bait your children, but I couldn't resist. The ten year old rolled his eyes to say "Oh crap, I've stepped into mom's trap. He then tried the possum strategy,"If I'm very still and play dead maybe she'll go away". The seven year old chimed in with "Everyone has a mom. It's not a career." He's right. It's not a career, it's a prison sentence. A prison sentence of judgment for working moms and non working moms. Out of the mouth of a smart ass babe, there is a bit of truth. If we define motherhood as a career for those without paid employment, then what is it for those who work, a hobby? If you are female and have children you are a mother. If you love them and do your best you are a good mother. The occupation line on forms always makes me feel inadequate. The suggested term homemaker is not even close to being accurate for me and a slap in the face to women who truly raise homemaking to an art form. I usually write in N/A but, I'd like to mark N.O.Y.F.B. I also love the question "What do you do?" I never know what to say,but I think I've finally come up with an answer. "I'm a dabbler. A little of this, a little of that. Acquisitions mostly." I don't have a career and motherhood is a role. Staying at home does not make mothering a career anymore than a career makes a person more valuable. Why do we only feel validation through a career? Why do people keep asking me what I'm going to do with myself next year when my youngest goes to kindergarten? I was actually thinking about pedaling my wares on Ponce in downtown Atlanta with the other lovely ladies. Maybe I'll right my sleep deficit of the past ten years. Maybe I'll eat Bons Bons and watch "General Hospital". Maybe I'll join the ladies that lunch. Maybe I'll volunteer for a favorite charity. If I only could choose one. The homeless, the battered women, kids at risk, education, literacy, the hungry,those without clean water- my heart bleeds equally for them all. Maybe I'll find a publisher for my children's stories so that my children will stop nagging me. My son told me that kids appreciate my stories more than grown ups anyway. Maybe I'll finish one of the five novels I've started. Maybe I'll start a fine arts program for at risk kids. Maybe I'll make a documentary. Maybe I'll just keep blogging. I'm not really sure what next year will hold for me. I don't have a plan. I learned the hard way that I don't need a career to make me feel of value. I have a wonderful husband and three fabulous kids. Anything else is gravy. I have found the gravy in volunteering where I'm needed and writing. Maybe I could set up a booth at career day with a banner saying "The No Career, Career". Maybe I'll just keep on keeping on.

Multiple Personalities

I told my husband that no one had answered my post/question “Why do you blog?” “Well, it was a gip. I’m here to read a blog, not write one for you.” Brutal honesty, I can always depend on him. Then he read the comments from the kind souls who did answer the question. Mom 101 said Great question. This is a lot of what I tackled today in my blog. I started out blogging as a way to "publish" my writing. But now, I use it to hone my craft, to connect with other women, and other writers. Oh, and to parlay it into a seven-figure deal with Touchstone. But I need another week or two for that one. 7:24 PM Dawn said... Well, it beats drinking. And keeps me from chattering at my husband who would rather I saved my "funny" stories for someone else. And now it pays me, and got me a gig at Blogher - so I remain a bit shocked and awed at the whole damn thing. 9:02 PM C.ELLA said... Thanks for commenting. I thought I was going to have to Blog with myself on that one. You two are like two of the voices in my head. Mom 101-you always manage to put my thoughts into words. Dawn-I forgot about husband relief, but does it count if you are always saying "Did you read my blog, did you read my blog?" 6:58 AM Antique Mommy said... Because once in a while I've got to let those crazy people who live in my head out to play... 5:46 PM Stuntmother said... I'm with Dawn! But also because I feel the need (in this tight little, small little mommy and child infested world I live in) to connect. To live somewhere bigger -- in a blogging village. It lets me write (and I love to write) and it allows me to narrate my thoughts and my life in a way that I can pretend there is coherence. But connection -- I think that may be the crux. 6:03 PM He asked me with suspicion “How many blogs do you really have? Come on you can tell me. OK at least tell me which personality you’re going to be so I’ll know which blog to read tomorrow.” I promise Roy, this isn’t like when I was little and had friends that lived in mirrors. These women do not live inside my head. They just write as if they do. To all those who answered and did in fact write the post for me, thank you. You expressed it better than I.

Spring Fever

I have spring fever baaad!!! I can't focus. I don't want to do anything. My daughter has a cold and I'm content to stay home and hang with her. The other night my son said "I don't want to go to school tomorrow". My husband said "I don't want to go to work tomorrow." I said "I don't want to go to school or work tomorrow. Oh wait I don't have to. Ha Ha!" They failed to see the humor. I'm over homework, field trips, PTA meetings, teacher appreciation (I am so not washing the teachers cars, have you seen my car?)field days, parties, practicing for testing,testing and more testing, and then more testing, math, spelling tests, research papers, science projects, and all things school related. I'm ready for summer. Bring on the lazy days of summer. Oh wait, in the 10 short weeks that now makes up summer vacation (due to the year round thiefs who are slowly stealing summer), we have to run from chess camp, music camp, computer camp, art camp, science camp, reading camp,golf camp, tennis camp, networking camp, future billionares camp, power lunching for beginners camp and vacation bible school thrown in if there's time. Oh wait you had to sign up in January. The camps are all full. Damn. I guess it's just me and the monsters again this summer in our pajamas until noon. Sometimes staying at home is a good gig. While the rest of the world learns how to dominate the corporate world we'll be kicking it at the neighborhood pool. We'll be there until the movers and shakers drive their weary selves home and then my kids will be outside selling them lemonade. Last summer my oldest came up with a strategy to combat the most jaded passerby. He had his four year old sister put on her cheerleading outfit. That's our boy pimping his sister for lemonade sales. I probably should be more concerned, but it's hard not to be impressed with that kind of marketing savy coming from a nine year old. They racked up last year. I mean come on, who could resist this- P.S. I've decided to live dangerously and post pictures inspite of internet perverts that might download these pictures and do unspeakable things in front of them. I wish people would not share these things with me. Ignorance is bliss.

Blog World

Why do you Blog?

Georgia Renaissance Festival

Saturday we went to the Georgia Renaissance Festival. Yes, most of the people look like this or like this. Check the full body armor. No, he was not employed by the festival. The kids have a great time. But, we really go for the food on a stick Steak on a Stake

My Old Turtle Religion Can Beat Up Your Ivory Tower Religion

I have heard so many people in real life and via the internet rejecting all organized religion or belief in God. It makes me really sad. Especially, when the religion I follow has been the cause. Religious elitists make me insane. I have a hard time not shrieking and pointing "Pharisee, Pharisee", but then I try and breath and remember that makes me no better. Religion is supposed to connect not divide. Religion should encourage community not cause isolation. Ivory tower religion is the opposite message at the core of all world religions. Faith is so personal. I try and accept that different people are in different places in their spirituality. Some need a literal fundamental system and some believe in nothing at all, which is fine unless you tread on others. "Old Turtle and the Broken Truth" and "Old Turtle" by Douglas Wood best defines my views on religion. If you haven't read it you owe to yourself and your children regardless of your religious views. The message in both is that the "truth" is- we are all one.

Prozac or Chocolate?

I went to a new therapist the other day. I have been going to the same one for about a year. He was very dry and personality challenged. I started seeing a therapist to determine if I had ADD and if the anxiety I felt was a symptom of depression. He concluded that I did in fact have ADD. This diagnosis came as no shock to me since I had already read every book, gone to every site about ADD on the internet, and taken every quiz in existence. He prescribed Adderall. I started taking it and was amazed that the fog lifted. Now I could actually make a list and prioritize. For example if I was taking the kids to basketball, a good starting place would be putting our shoes on. I kid you not pre-Adderall determing that was a herculean task for my racing brain. Since Adderall is a very controlled substance (you really feel like a junkie/headcase taking it) you have to see a therapist every three months to get new prescriptions. I also still take a low dosage of Prozac for anxiety, which the therapist said I didn't need because my anxiety was caused by ADD. I couldn't help feeling that he was just guessing. After a friend went to him and endured a "let's see what this med does" method of therapy I had little confidence in him. Since, I have to spend thirty minutes every three months with a therapist I decided I should find someone I like. I also felt uncomfortable with my current therapists medicate first, ask questions later policy. With so much information out there in both support and warning of medications I felt it was time to do the actual therapy and see where that leads me. I really like my new therapist. She really seems to get me. The problem is I need to know what's next. I need a plan. I left feeling good, but also like I just paid $175 for someone to be my friend. I need her to give me a blow by blow, like Week One-I get to know your crazy ass. Week Two-I ask you how you feel? Week Three-We hook you up with some really bitchin' drugs. Week Four-The men in white coats come and take you away to your padded cell. I'm trying to just go with the flow and realize this is a process. I don't have a problem medicating, I just want to get it right. Do I have depression that requires medication or am I sometimes a little sad or anxious and a chocolate bar would do the trick? My brother sent this to me. The recommended page is:This Chemical Imbalance In My Brain Is Driving Me Crazy

Kids and Stray Cats

Lily Grace: You are out of control mom! Me: What?! Lily Grace: You said you'd come look at my picture and you haven't even made my peanut butter and jelly sandwich(in the shape of a butterfly with no crusts). We had been home for all of fifteen minutes. And she's the well adjusted one. My ten year old still wants me to entertain him constantly. It's my fault if I had ignored him like a reasonable woman he'd know how to entertain himself. As I write he's calling for me. He has a sixth sense for when I'm doing something that has nothing to do with him. The middle child is an alien and his mothership will beam him up one day. He acted like I was crazy if I tried to play with him. "Go do mom things, I'm playing here." Advice to parents of small children "Don't play with your children. It's like feeding a stray cat, once you play with them(children) they'll never go away."

Southern Stereotypes

O.K. I can’t take it anymore. I keep reading or hearing how stupid southerners are and I’m about to get off my backwards southern ass, get out my shotgun and let loose. Blogs have put me over the edge. Blogs that I have otherwise enjoyed reading contributing to the “Southerners are all rebel flag waving, cousin fucking, gun toting, Bible thumping, grammar challenged, uneducated, shoeless, grit eating cretins” stereotype that hostile Yankees love to perpetuate. For you bloggers that dis the South, I’m so disappointed. For all your supposed understanding, you’re just another elitist clique. My Yankee aunt came to visit one summer. We spent a week listening to her incessant complaining about the South. On the last night we went out to dinner. She yelled at practically the entire restaurant staff including the busboy she asked to bring her a fork who simply smiled and walked away. “Did you see that he’s so dumb he acts like he can’t understand English. I could never live here. The people are too slow.” As she finished the last bite of her inedible fish I said to her letting the drawl cover my words like honey “First of all in the South we spit on your food when you’re rude to us, second the busboy didn’t understand you because he doesn’t speak English he speaks Spanish, and third do you think we’re stupid? You do realize that we are in fact southern. My husband (who just bought your dinner, thank you very much) and my children are all southern born. I have been in the south for half my life. So stop with the superior yankee southern bashing.” That kind of was a conversation killer. My southern hospitality had stretched to its limits. I can’t stand it when people generalize so let me clarify –by Yankee- I mean rude nasal bastards that dismiss an entire region of people because of a few idiots who live up to a stereotype. Saying that all southerners are stupid is like saying all liberals are evil. Being southern and liberal my shoes have been stepped on one too many times by the closed minded. Extremists of any kind really should just be shot. Well, I ain’t got no time to be rantin’ I got to fix me some grits.

Our Little Grease Spot

Our pediatrician was a kind older southern gentleman that had never married and still referenced his mama in every other sentence (clueless gay in the South). After the birth of our first child he told us this “You know, it is perfectly normal to wonder how big a grease spot your son would make on the wall.” “Uhhh, thanks for the tip.” First, this child did not sleep. I mean ever. He woke every two hours and screamed like a banshee if he even suspected that you were going to put him down. As sleep deprived as we were the thought of actually hurling the little demon against the wall never occurred and the actual act, who had the energy. Besides we had it covered, we NEVER put him down. Even the hand off had to be done very delicately as to not upset Satan, I mean my angel. The boy reached decibels not humanly possible. We tried everything from prescription antihistamines to chamomile tea to get the child to sleep. Don’t even mention Ferber to me. We tried ferberizing him too. Ferber was no match for shrieking boy with limitless stamina. In the best case he would stop screaming for 15 minutes and then pick up where he left off. In the worst he would puke all over his crib. No variable altered his routine. Even in our bed he woke every couple of hours. He slept like this for everyone, not just us. I still read articles about getting your baby to sleep to see if we missed a magic trick. To this day we have no idea why he did this or why he finally stopped. He stopped around age four just in time for his 2 year old brother to start having night terrors. We never wondered about the grease spot either of our sons would leave. We did, however, consider a muzzle or shock collar.

Empathy Takes Imagination

"Empathy takes Imagination" (Michael Chabon) When I read that in an article a light bulb appeared over my head. I now know why no one gives a crap about anything that does not directly affect them. Know but, still don't get. People without imagination can't put themselves in someone else's shoes. They are unable to interpretate one person's experience into their own. So you couldn't find Neverland if Peter Pan, Wendy, and Tinkerbell dragged you by your ear, ok, Empathy is not that hard. It's not like it takes imagining a new species or alternate universe. For the imagination challenged let me break it down for you. First, get out into the world. Get the F@#$ out of suburbia once in awhile. Not everyone is a SUV driving , tennis playing, Talbots wearing chick who's biggest concern is that the maid comes on tuesday, but your dinner party is on friday or trying to fit your Botox appointment in between carpool and soccer. Here's how to relate to: the homeless Imagine (you can do it) that you are re-modeling your home and the dust and mess is just too much for you and you simply must stay at a hotel, only you have to slum it at the Motel 6 because everything else is booked. the poor your husband hid your credit card the abused I'll be happy to demonstrate. friend/family member's feelings It doesn't freaking matter if you can relate, you support them because you should have some loyalty. I started Yoga recently. I think it's working. I think I'm much calmer. Happy go lucky, yeah that's me. Today we spent the whole time with raquetballs under our ass until we no longer felt the pressure (i.e. excruciating pain). The trick is you have to be patient and wait. It really does work. I highly recommend getting yourself some balls.

Hear Me Roar

Mom 101's post about feminism brought me back to my childhood as a "Women's Libber". (I am so dating myself now.) I was a militant little thing, loudly proclaiming my "girls can do anything" manifesto to anyone who challenged me. As I write this Helen Reddy's song that became the anthem of the women's movement "I Am Woman" is running through my head. Be glad you can't hear me singing it. Helen Reddy wrote the song to reflect the positive self image she had from joining the women's movement. My dad was the feminist in my house. He made me feel like I was Kim Possible and that I really could do anything. When I grew up I was going to be the first woman president or the next Nadia Comaneci and win the gold medal in gymnastics. He pushed me hard because he felt he had to prepare me to compete in a man's world. My dad didn't want me stuck in a trailer married to a man named Bubba in a dorito and beer stained wife beater yelling "get me my turkey pot pie, bitch". He wanted me to value myself and know that I had options. I was raised to never be dependent on a man. For me, feminism means not being defined by your gender. My niece is as comfortable in cleats as she is in her new heels (well, she's still teetering, but she'll find her balance). My daughter is a princess with a capital P. She can't stand for me to play football or have nerf dart wars with her brothers. She just knows she can make a lady out of me. She came out of the womb wearing a tiara. Both are wonderful girls. We all want options. No one wants the door closed on them. If you are female and you want choices you are a feminist. We need to stop the "us and them" cycle. The truth is we all have our own way of getting through the day. Instead of judging which leads to isolation (which benefits no one, except the makers of Prozac), we need to create a village of support. We all have the same goal, to be valued for the person we choose to be. Solidarity, sister!

Comfortable at a Trot

A few years ago my husband and I signed up for horseback riding on the beach. When we got to the stables I learned that you were supposed to be comfortable at a trot. The thing was I had never been on a horse and didn't have the vaguest idea what a trot was. My husband whispered to me "don't say a word, you can do this, don't be afraid". Easy for him to say since as far as I can tell he can do anything, is fast on the uptake, and is afraid of nothing. Well, he is afraid of sharks, bears, and karoake. I kept my mouth shut and got on to the horse inspite of my fear. I was pretty sure the horse hated me, in fact I think he sneered at me. Have you ever noticed how large a horse's teeth are? I didn't want to miss out or ruin the experience for my husband. The ride was fantastic, the scenery beautiful, and it turned out I was comfortable at a trot.

Pretty or Smart?

Pretty or Smart? My husband loves to pose this question to me in front of people to see what I’ll say. Will I tell the truth or will I give the “truthy” answer. The truthy answer is when I say I’d choose smart because looks don’t matter. No one bought that one including me. I usually give the real answer which is I’d pick smart and maybe have a little work done. I know looks shouldn’t matter but, they do. I think the Dove campaign for real beauty is a great start. I think Dove’s ad’s showing beautiful children who all have self-esteem issues (to illustrate how warped our idea of beauty is) or showing less than perfect women in their underwear are a welcome change, but the women and girls are all attractive. I don’t see fugly being spun into the campaign for real beauty. I had a friend when asked what would you choose pretty or smart answered without having to think about it, pretty. Her reason was that beauty could attract the means (i.e. sugar daddy) to provide her a good life (i.e. gourmet food, Mcmansion, Manolos and Prada). I knew her pretty well at the time and had no idea how important material things were to her. If answered honestly this question was a real insight into a person’s character and values. Growing up my family labeled my brother and me when we were very little. He would grow up and be an engineer because of his gift in Math. I was a pretty child so I would grow up and become Miss America. My family envisioned my brother ( I think all they knew about engineering was that it required math skills and that it was a high paying job) being rich engineering things. The greatest hope my family had for my life was to have a tiara placed on my head while wearing stilettos and a bathing suit, held in place by copious amounts of hairspray applied to my buttocks, Vaseline on my teeth so my lips won’t get stuck to them, and hair so big you could see it from space with Bert Parks crooning “There she is, Miss America”. I can’t prove this was the cause of my obsessive need for people to think that I am smart, but I’m saying it is because no one can prove otherwise. Although, it is quite possible that I am truly an idiot who doesn’t know it and a desperate wannabee smart chick who should have spent more time practicing the beauty queen wave and working on her platform of “justice for frogs”. All I know for sure is that I’m covering all my bases with my niece and daughter. When ever I say “you’re so pretty” I quickly add “and smart”. So would you rather be pretty or smart? Honestly.

Why Me?

Everything makes me feel guilty. I feel guilty because I am not poor, I have never experienced racism, I have clean (or relatively speaking) water, my college education was assumed not fought for, my husband not only loves me and the kids, but loves spending time with us, I have two arms and two legs, I don't have to work if I don't want to (which I don't because I hate people telling me what to do), I have a brother who is a great friend, and I have survived things that brought others to teen pregnancy or chemical dependency. I feel all this guilt because I do not believe that I deserve any of these things more than the next person. I try my best to put out good Karma, but so do a lot of others. I had a dream one night that I had a lump in my breast and I woke up and I did in fact have a lump in my breast. The Dr. was amazed I found the lump at all particularly since I was only 26. Since the biopsy came back with suspicious cells the lump was removed. It turned out to be benign, but if left undiscovered and unchecked it could have turned into cancer. Many said it must have been divine intervention. The problem I have with that is why me? Why would God intervene in my life and not others? Besides if you have studied my religion you know that God does not play favorites, all are equal, no matter what you do or don't do. Don't get me wrong, I am thankful whatever the reason. Since, I will never know the answer to why, I try to live my life by this --with great gifts comes great responsiblities. Lewis Black on guilt from his book "Nothing's Sacred": Judaism--We created the concept of guilt. Catholics--These are the people who codified guilt. Protestants-- And these are these are the folks who transformed guilt into "tension".

Mustangs, Guns and Roses

Last night as my husband and I drove down interstate 75 I had a Mustang montage. The first picture was of a teenage boy and girl driving, probably way too fast, on the same interstate with the top down on a blue '66 convertible Mustang blaring Guns and Roses "Welcome to the Jungle". Fade to next image of same boy, now 24 and the same girl, now 22, driving off in another (though not as cool) blue mustang convertible covered in condoms and shaving cream and trailing beer cans hanging from a "just married" sign. As they drive off into the distance the blue mustang is replaced by a red mustang convertible, the boy and girl have become a man and woman, and the delighted giggles of two little boys can be heard as the engine roars to life and settles to a purrr. The man and woman decide to try something new and this time the car in the scene is a silver convertible of German engineering. The man and woman are uncomfortable and the car doesn't feel right. The last scene is of the man and woman in a new black convertible Mustang with red leather interior, a little girl throws her arms in the air and screams "woohoo". Fade out. The magic of the Mustang is that it works as a time machine transporting us to our youth.

Spring Break Confessions

Last week was Spring Break. We loaded up the car like the Clampetts with our stuff, three kids, dog, and cat and headed to Hilton Head, South Carolina . Every year we spend Spring break in Hilton Head with my husband's family which includes his parents and his sister's family(we don't stay in the same place). It was a great week. The weather was perfect, the six cousins got along, and the grown-ups got along. We are back in town and I can't get my groove back. Probably due to my Catholic roots and this being Easter week, confession is on mind so I thought I'd fess up. Maybe it will cleanse my aura. Here's my list: Disclaimer---no girls gone wild content---very lame--strictly PG or PG-13 due to use of the "F" word and one reference to not smoking pot. 1) I really hate my ex-business partner/ex best friend (even though I tell everyone I have no hard feelings) 2) I have ADD and OCD which makes me an Obsessive Slacker (think dog running in circles chasing its tail) 3) I love bumper sticker wisdom (but not actually on cars, I almost kill myself trying to read them). I'm also a sucker for t-shirts w/sayings. 4) I was actually flattered when boys at VBS told my son that I was hot. (sick and wrong I know) 5) Sometimes I hate(strong dislike, not the opposite of love) my fucking kids (and I was shocked when my friend first uttered this sentence) 6) Most of the time I think my kids are three of the coolest humans around, definitely the smartest and most interesting people I know. 7) I wish I wasn't too old to be on American Idol(not being able to carry a tune wouldn't stop me). 8) I secretly think that the extremely strong man who pulled me out of the ocean like I was a Barbie Doll who is living (hiding) in St. Maarten after spending time in the military and then fleeing Croatia with all of his uncles etc. and looks like a somewhat deformed version of Arnold Shwarznegger is dreamy. Just Kidding. Never, ever express awe (o.K. over and over again) at someone's strength to your husband. If brute strength instead of wit got me hot I would've dated David Snackowitz instead of you. 9) I snort when I laugh if something is extremely funny. 10) I sort of recycle. 11) I don't always pick up when I see your number on caller id. 12) I love Drake Bell 13) I knit 14) I'm a shopaholic and I have read all the "Shopaholics" books. 15) I've never smoked pot. (Fear of it burning my lungs like the stupid cigarette I tried to smoke did) 16) I wanted a tatoo in college (again Fear kept me from getting one)--who says fear is always a bad thing. 17) I cuss like a sailor 18) If I want to learn something new, I buy a how to book 19) When I sneeze or laugh too hard I wet my pants 20) I love musicals and I know all the words to "Grease" (I made my brother star with me in our basement production that was directed by and starring me), "West Side Story", "Annie", and "The Sound of Music" 21) I don't really think my sister-in-law and her friends naming their little clique "Desperate Moms" is silly, I'm just jealous. I want a clique, or posse, entourage, peeps, a few non-psychotic geeks will do!!!! I am so pathetic!!!!!!!

T.V. Slut

I am a T.V. slut, but in a high priced call girl kind of way. I am very selective. I watch three shows (four if Arrested Development comes back)Veronica Mars (I so want to be her) and Grey's Anatomy (not for McDreamy, but Yang is hysterical) and the Daily Show (Jon Stewart is so damn smart and funny--he'd probably get a freebie-). I watched Desparate Housewives the first season before it went hard core soap opera/soft porn. I mourn the end of "Seinfeld" and "Friends". I lust for a good comedy to come along. I've messed around with a few that had promise, but so far none have done it for me. I just can't fake it or lie there until it's over. So I read a lot. If you need comic relief in the form of a book read "Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonay" by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. It is hysterically funny. Common sense advice with sass not sanctimony. Her blog is great too. http://www.babyonbored.blogspot.com/. I forgot one- I love the Bernie Mac Show. I'm a sucker for men who love their kids. I married my own Mac man. He even calls our daughter, Baby girl in that deep Bernie Mac voice.

Fundamentalist Say the Darndest Things

Here's a few gems from the teachers at the school that kicked us to the curb last September:

• If you believe in evolution you are not a Christian.
• The devil must be in this room (to a rowdy Kindergarten class)
• If God wanted girls to be President it would have already happened.
• Vote "W' for President
• Harry Potter is evil!
• The Tsunami might have been God's plan because those people weren't Christian.
• The earth is only 6ooo years old (young earth theory- for you godless heathens)
• The Bible is never wrong about Science. (It's never wrong about auto mechanics either-as my husband pointed out)
• We're not exactly sure how many we saved on the mission trip to Cambodia because they didn't speak English.
• Animals do not go to heaven, they do not have souls. (to a child who just lost a pet)

My son raised his hand in response to the last comment and asked "Miss Destupido (not her real name) can you back that up with scripture?" We were very proud.

What we learned is, there is no such thing as an ecumenical Christian school. Oh and apparently we aren't Christians, we're Methodists.

Modern Rockwell

This is a picture my husband took two years ago during a trip to NY. The children are watching the snow fall in Times Square. I call it "Innocence Falling" or "Ain't that America".

Citizens Band

“Breaker, Breaker one –nine, this is Paper Doll anyone got your ears on?” A gold star for anyone who knows what that means. Breaker-fellow cbers got your ears on?- are you on this frequency? If you were alive during the seventies and owned a CB radio you might have heard the six or seven year old me A.K.A. Paper Doll screaming the above over the airwaves. Yes, my parents let me talk to truckers. They’d let me talk to anyone if it gave their ears a rest. I wouldn’t start off screaming. I’d say it normally the first few times and then in frustration I’d start screaming. I’d get desperate to make contact before my parents told me I had to go to bed. Even then I needed to be heard. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one. During the seventies CB Radios became a major fad. Even the then first lady Betty Ford admitted to participating using the handle “First Mama”. The Blog is kind of like the Citizens Band of the new millennium. The Blog provides the anonymity to create you, uncensored. Like the CB it comes with its own rules and lingo but, the purpose is the same, communication. A longing to know that you are not alone.

My Husband, My Hero.

My husband is a god. He is hot, sexy, smart, kind, generous, brilliant, extremely witty, strong, a wonderful husband, a phenomenal father, able to scale tall buildings in a single bound, and he can do anything because he is, he is Superman. He's my hero. Is that better honey?

The Wedding Dress

I spent many hours of my childhood imagining my wedding day. I used a towel to serve as a veil and practiced walking down the aisle. After my first communion I would sneak my veil out and use it for imaginings. Men think woman grow up dreaming of marriage, but the truth is it has nothing to do with wanting a husband. Sure, I remember dressing up a teddy bear or sometimes even my little brother as a groom. The maid of honor, the guests, the priest all were "there". As I walked down the pretend aisle everyone faded out of focus and it was really just me. I was the most beautiful I'd ever been. All eyes were on me and they all thought I was beautiful. They had to, I was the bride. The beautiful bride. On your Wedding day you get to be beautiful and allowed to be the center of attention without judgment. The minute I was engaged I wanted to run out and try on real wedding dresses. I begged my mother to go with me. She refused, saying we had almost a year. For months I didn't go hoping she would eventually go with me. That's what you did, right? You and your mother would go have a storybook moment and find the perfect dress. Unfortunately, my life played more from the "Cinderella" story. One day I couldn't resist and when my fairy godmother offered her magic I eagerly accepted. I found a dress that transformed me into a princess. The dress had a jeweled neckline and folds of the softest silk accented with pearl beads sewn by hand, a million little fabric covered buttons ran up the back and the fitted bodice flowed to a slightly full skirt with a 10ft long train. The dress was perfect subtle and elegant. I called my mother to respectfully ask her opinion. Her indifference gave me a moment of doubt, but as I turned and saw the dress I knew I had to have it. I brought it home. I knew my enthusiasm would be contagious and my mother would share in my excitement. The dress was so exquisite what could she say? I tried it on. I arranged the train behind me and called for her. She came to the stairs and looked up at me. My face beaming with joy and anticipation. She laughed and said "You look like a school marm. It' s your dress if that's what your happy with." I kept the dress. The day of my wedding my mother fixed the flower girl's and my hair. She started with my adorable little cousin. She spent so much time that I and my future in-laws (not to mention the very high strung wedding coordinator) were getting a little nervous. "Mom, do you think we might want to get started on my hair, we're running out of time." She replied"Oooh are we jealous. Are you not getting enough attention?" When she was done I looked like a grown up version of my little cousin. Big, curly waves stuck out in two bunches from either side of my veil. I looked like Minney Mouse. My mother blamed the veil. "There's not much I can do with this veil", she said. She left to get ready. I ripped the veil off to the horror of the wedding coordinator. I started folding and bending the veil into a shape that I hoped would tame my cartoonish hair. I put the veil back on and looked at myself. I now looked like Shirley Temple gone bad. Time was up and I had to go walk the aisle I dreamed of. I never felt beautiful that day. I knew the dress was beautiful but, I never could erase the image of me as a school marm or tame those damn curls. My wedding dress sits in a heap hidden in a basket. My in-laws and husband spent years admonishing me for not getting the dress heirloomed. All they see is a beautiful dress, I hope that some day I will too.

1 800 Jesus Christ

I saw a billboard the other day that read –1-800-Jesus Christ. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I want to call. I see it as a Steven Colbert sketch. You know where he interviews people straight faced and says the most outlandish things. Hotline operator: Hello thank you for calling 1 800 Jesus Christ. It is our hope that you have called to accept the lord as your savior and be spared eternal damnation in the fiery pit that is hell. Me: Yeah, O.K. What I really want to know is what’s the H stand for? Hotline operator: pardon me? Me: You know the H in Jesus H. Christ. Hotline operator: I don’t really know. Me: I kind of expected you to know that one. Well, then I’ve got this weird rash do you think you could you know do one of your miracles? Hotline Operator: I don’t think you understand--- Me: I get it you’re not in the miracle business anymore. O.K. let’s play a game. It’s called WWJD, What would Jesus or in this case—you do? First question—You have a sick kid, but can’t afford medicine, do you steal it? What would you do? What would you do? Hotline Operator: I think you need some professional help. If you hold for a minute I can get you a number. Me: That’s O.K. I knew that one was hard. No offense , but if you can’t answer it than how the hell are we suppose to know what you would do? Here’s another one-- a very large friend asks does my butt look big in these pants? Do you tell her the truth, that her ass is huge and there’s no hiding that thing? Or do you tell a little white lie and spare her feelings? What would you do? What would you do? Hotline Operator: Umm. I’m going to have to go now. Jesus loves you.

The Pretend Blogger

I feel like an imposter. This isn't really my world. I'm not sure that I belong. What the hell am I doing and why? I started this blog as a way to make me write something everyday. I wasn't going to tell anyone. Not that it would matter if I told anyone I know. I seriously doubt anyone I know has the vaguest idea what a blog is. I wasn't even going to tell my husband. I made it until dinner time and I blabbed my secret to him. Then I told my brother. I really just wanted to take a tiny leap. Knowing that a only a remote chance of my voice being heard in blogland existed I felt protected and a little brave. I mean somebody might actually read it, but most likely not. I really enjoyed the fact that only my husband and my brother (both are quite brutal) actually read my stuff, but at least I was writing. I had taken a step, albeit a baby step. Well that lasted all but two months. Today I joined a ring, Crazy Hip Mamas. Why?!! I obviously need to be medicated. I don't have a clue what I'm doing. I don't know a net ring from a html code. What am I even saying? It took me so many tries to add the damn code that my children learned something very colorful words. Oh who am I kidding? Pick a cuss word anyone and it probably was one of the three monsters first word. After my last attempt at adding the link I thought I had wiped out my entire template. I thought this is it. This must be a sign. I shouldn't do this. Then like magic (which I'm convinced is how the whole damn thing works anyway) the link posted. Why couldn't writing for fun and me (and to give my husband and brother something else to ridicule) be enough? Obviously, I didn't get enough love as a child.

My Vagina Monologue

What word would I teach my daughter to call her vagina? I thought about it. Couldn't decide and when she asked I made myself say "vagina". I couldn't see any valid reason for not teaching the anatomically correct term for the body part. It seemed ridiculous to either come up with a cutesy word or just vaguely refer to it as if it wasn't really real or worse that it was too offensive to speak of. I mean we don't generally teach our children substitute names for say our fingers, or knees, or ears. I admit, however, the word did not just role off my tongue. I had to force it. My mother referred to it as a tutu, which I'm sure explains my weird adversion to ballerina garb. My sister-in-law said to me "I can't believe you taught her that word". As if I taught her a dirty word. She refers to it as your bottom. That's not technically correct though is it? Your bottom is your booty. I think that circumstance could arise when referring to your vagina as your bottom could cause serious confusion and unhappy consequences. I taught my boys the proper names for male and female genitalia as well. My oldest couldn't quite say the word or misheard and so referred to a woman's as a china. Which still makes me smile. If you think about it it is a nicer way to think about genitalia. If a vagina were treated like china it would be special, taken care of and saved for the extraordinary. My daughter some time ago proudly announced to her grandfather that she had a vagina. I hope that she will always have such a healthy attitude toward her anatomy.

The Breakfast Club

Friday, I had to put in hours towards my my indentured servitude at my olders son's magnet school for science, math, and technology. The thought of going there made me realize that we are forever stuck in the movie "The Breakfast Club". Forever, classified by others or sometimes ourselves as a brain, an athlete, a princess, a basketcase, or a criminal. As the movie summed up in the essay answering "Who do you think you are?" most of us have a little of all of the above. I do sort of envy those who fit so neat and tidy into a category. Take for instance a good majority of the parents at my son's school who were or are some version of Anthony Michael Hall's geek. Not that there is anything wrong with being a geek, but the problem is some geeks grow up to be militant geeks. You know the type, those that wallow in uber geekdom. Those who Bill Gates has become a poster boy for. Some are still trying to justify that they weren't Prom Queen. They wear their child's acceptance to the school like a neon badge. "You know the school is very difficult, it's not for everyone." To which I have to bite my tongue in half to keep from saying it's not that hard and you don't have to be that smart to get in! A 75% average (on a basic skills test) is just average. These same parents want our children to continue wearing uniforms in middle school when the entire middle school population for our district will be housed in one location. The students of this program will be the only ones in uniform. I suggested we just save time and money and put "kick me" signs on the children instead. I guess these particular parents have forgotten what it's like to be stuffed into their lockers. The rules have not changed since we were in school. Every time I go to the school I hear Judd Nelson saying "It's social, demented and sad, but social." My son has serious geek potential, but a healthy dose of pop culture. I think this mix will help him survive the middle and high school years. It's great to be smart, but to truly excel in this world you have to be able to relate to everyone. I just hope we can survive the demented and sad parents. I hear the inside of a locker or two calling their names.