Chicken Nugget Mama

McDonalds Rescue Heroes!!!

2012-01-20T17:56:00.000-08:00

First of all, I have to admit that the boys and I spend a lot of time at McDonalds. A lot. Before you judge, keep in mind that I've been primarily single-parenting my two little guys for the past 3 1/2 years, given hubby's work schedule. Every weekend. By myself. In an area of the country where it rains pretty much all the time. With two little boys, who are only 1 year and 2 1/2 weeks apart and no involved family anywhere nearby to give me a break. Ever. OK, I'm done justifying, because here's the thing about McDonalds restaurants...

They have TUBES! Bright-colored, loopy tubes and slides and climby-ramps. Bouncy tunnels and little rooms with soft mats where kids can wrestle and jump around. See-through bubble compartments that look like spaceships with steering wheels.

In other words, McD's provides a space where two little boys can completely exhaust themselves, while their always-exhausted mother can drink coffee and restore her sanity.

Yes, they're disgustingly dirty. I've seen the T.V. shows. And, there are far too few parents who enforce the sock rule, which sometimes makes me gag a little bit. But, I pack around the hand sanitizer, insist that we always take a bath or shower on the days we hit a McD's, and cross my fingers. Besides, isn't exposure to germs supposed to help kids build up their immune systems? I read that somewhere, and I'm going with that one.

So, my little guys have been coming to McDonalds since the first one started walking. At the ripe old age of 9 months. Sigh. We even have nicknames for the different McD's around town. There's "The Wet McDonalds", because the roof used to leak when it rained. Then, there's "The Mall McDonalds", which has the coolest rope net to climb on, but is usually way too busy to provide any sort of Mommy recovery time. This brings us to "The Ferndale McDonalds", which is just up the highway a bit, and has the best ramp tower. Finally, The Dirty McDonalds", because once we went there, and every single table was dirty. I swore I'd never go back, but the boys talked me into it, and everything was clean that time. Must've been under new management. Plus, it has the coolest tubes, bar none. I know how cool they are, because I once had to climb up in there to save my 3-year-old, who had gotten lost and stuck and was crying to be rescued.

Which brings me to the "Rescue Heroes" topic. Finally. Any parent, who has spent as much time as I have at McDonalds, has probably had to climb up the tubes to rescue her child at one time or another. I have had to perform 3 rescues over the years. The afore-mentioned one, which occurred at "The Dirty McDonalds", as well as 2 rescues at "The Mall McDonalds." Which is why, until my boys reached the ages at which they would no longer need rescuing, I always wore comfortable clothes for our McD's visits.

Today at McDonalds, it all came full circle. My boys were playing like maniacs, as usual, when I heard a pathetic little voice calling out, "Mama? Mama? Can't find you, Mama!" I looked up and saw a cute little boy, about 3 years old, waaaaay up on one of the ramps, tears streaming down his cheeks. About a minute later, a harried-looking Mom showed up, looking up anxiously and calling to her little boy, "Come on down, honey. Can't you come down?" "I can't, Mama. I lost up here." (By the way, this Mom must've been a McD's newbie, because she was NOT wearing comfortable clothes. Not even close. There was no way she was going to be climbing up those tubes in her cute little skirt. No way.)

At that, I hollered for Spencer and Foster and told the worried Mom that my boys would climb up and help her little guy find his way back down. (I actually had no idea if they'd do it or not, at least not without some complaining about it first, but I hoped they'd grab onto the opportunity to do something heroic. Fingers crossed.) As it turned out, they were incredibly excited to help out the little guy. My heart was bursting with pride as they grinned at me and said, "Sure, Mom. We'll get him down!" and streaked up the tubes to the rescue. They were awesome. They led him through the tubes, helping him climb up the ramps by pulling on one end and pushing on the other, and they even slid down the slide with him, saying encouraging things all along the way. I'd like to say that the grateful Mom squatted down to thank my boys for their kindness, but she just stalked away with her kid. Sigh. It didn't seem to faze either of my boys, though. They were so proud and excited, in fact, that they led a second little lost kid out of the maze of tubes about 30 minutes later. And, that little boy's worried grandparents thanked them effusively. I just beamed.

My boys. Rescue heroes, indeed!

Cheers!

Life is fleeting. Don't forget to live it.

2012-01-17T20:14:00.000-08:00

Last week, an amazing, creative, charismatic little 10-year-old boy in my community suffered a critical injury while practicing acrobatics in his bedroom. He lived for only 2 days, before his family had to make the impossible decision to shut off the machines which were keeping him alive. I can't even imagine the depths of the grief his parents must be feeling...I just can't even go there.

So, when we woke up to the first real snow of the season, yesterday, and my boys wanted to go sledding, we dropped everything and went. I whooped it up with those little guys for 2 1/2 straight hours. My bad ankle throbbed so badly it had its own heartbeat, but I didn't care. We must have made 40 trips up that hill! Ouch.

And, when my little guys wanted to build a snow alien, we made an awesome snow alien, with crazy sticks for hair and pine cones for eyes. A little creepy, actually, but quite cool.

Then, when they wanted to gang up against me in a snowball fight, even though I had pulled some sort of tendon in my wrist snowshovelling the driveway, I was all over it. Tired and in pain, but nothing could have stopped me. (By the way, I can still take them both in a snowball fight, even with a messed-up wrist. Two against one....doesn't matter. Oh, yeah.)

And, when we woke up to even more snow and a bonus day off from school, today, we did it all over again. This time, hubby was able to join us on our adventure. With his work schedule, our family days are few and far between, so it made the hours we all spent together that much more precious. And, since we spent most of those hours flying down a hill, covered in snow, laughing our asses off, it was time spent well. Living life to the fullest. Appreciating every moment. My cheeks still hurt from laughing. (As for my wrist and ankle...that's a whole different kind of hurt. But, I wouldn't take it back for a moment.)

So now, as my little ones are drifting off to sleep, I will sip my glass of cabernet, elevate my throbbing, swollen ankle, put a brace on my throbbing, swollen wrist, and snuggle into bed next to my hubby to watch something silly on T.V. And, I will thank my lucky stars that I was able to spend such glorious days with the people I love most in the world, and that I can wake up tomorrow and hug them and kiss them and appreciate them and continue to make beautiful memories with them.

Because, heartbreakingly, some people aren't able to do that with the ones they love...

The cure for a crying fit is...math?

2012-01-03T21:21:00.000-08:00

It's almost 9pm on a Tuesday. Normally, both of my boys would be sound asleep in their own rooms right now, and I would be: 1) Passed out from exhaustion, or 2) Enjoying a nice glass of cabernet while watching something brain-numbing on T.V. As it turns out, I was planning on option #2 this evening, because the hubster went over to his buddy's house for a little male bonding, and the new season of The Biggest Loser started tonite. But, as I relaxed on the couch, sipping some red and munching on Orville Redenbacher's Smart Pop popcorn, I heard little footsteps and sniffling noises approaching down the hall. There was Foster. He looked up at me, miserably, bottom lip trembling, and then burst into tears and flung himself onto my lap.

"Mommy, I feel so, so sad." (sob, sob)

"What's wrong, honey? Why do you feel sad?"

"Because you gave away some of our stuffed animals! I love ALL of my stuffed animals, and you gave some awaaaaay......" (louder sobbing)

"Well, honey, we gave away some of our stuffed animals at Christmastime, so that kids who don't have any can have some animals to snuggle up with at night. You have a lot of stuffed animals to snuggle up with. You're really lucky."

"I know, but I really, really miss my stuffed animals." (renewed fits of sobbing)

Now, before you think I'm a terrible mother who cruelly snatched beloved toys from the arms of my devastated little boys...I donated maybe 10 stuffed animals that neither boy ever even looks at any more, let alone plays with. I doubt that Foster could even come up the identities of any of these donated stuffed animals that are now the cause of so much drama... Still, I felt a twinge of guilt at his sadness, I'll admit.

Then, the sound of new footsteps came down the hallway.....Spencer, of course.

"What's wrong with Fos? Why is he crying?"

"BECAUSE MOMMY GAVE AWAY OUR STUFFED ANIMALS!!!" (wailing now)

"Well, sweetie, I know that you're sad, but it's a school night and time for bed. So, let's go snuggle up with some of your other stuffed animals, OK? Spence, it's sweet that you're thinking about Fos, but time for bed for you too."

Off we went down the hallway...

By the time I got Fos to his bed, he was crying even harder than before.

"Now I'm really, really sad about TWO things. I'm sad about my stuffed animals AND I'm sad about Cosmo dying last Christmas. I'm SO SAD!!!" (bwaaaaaaaaaaaaa.....)

Oy.

So, we went through some deep breaths to calm things down, but he had himself really worked up, and I just didn't feel right walking out and leaving him in such a state. Was I being manipulated? Highly likely. I'm sure it happens every day. However, this is really unusual behavior from him, especially at bedtime, so I just wasn't sure what was really going on with my little guy.

Next thing I knew, Spence appeared at my side.

"Mom? I know I'm supposed to be sleeping, but I'm really, really worried about Foster, and I think he needs me." (How precious is that, I ask you? I almost pee'd my pants with joy at big brother being so sweet to little brother, especially since that's pretty unusual behavior around here as well.)

"Honey, that's really nice of you, but I think you need to head back to bed." (louder wailing from Fos)

"Well, you see Mom, I really think you should let me sleep in here with Foster for a little bit. I think I can make him feel better. You know we used to share a room." At this, Fos sits up and hugs his brother, and, for a change, his brother hugs him back.

"Mommy," said Fos through his sobs, "You always say that the most important and wonderful thing is our family, right? Please let Spence sleep with me."

So, I let Spence grab his blanket and pillow, and I said he could stay in there for a little while to cheer up Fos.

"Can we do quiet talking, Mommy? PLEEEEEASE?????"

"OK, but if it sounds like you guys are getting crazy in there, I'm going to send Spence back to his own bed right away. And, only 10 minutes of talking. Then, it's sleepy time for you both."

"Thank you so much, Mommy. You're the best Mommy in the universe!!!" (accompanied by more sniffing and sobbing from my youngest, of course)

"Yeah," I thought to myself, "I don't think your teachers are going to be thinking I'm such a terrific Mommy tomorrow, when you're both so tired that you lose your minds all day at school..."

Anyhoo...I headed back to the living room to finish my glass of wine, and I immediately heard giggling from the room. So, I did what any self-respecting parent would do...I tippy toed down the hallway and eavesdropped outside the door.

What was making my little guy, who had been sobbing his heart out only moments before, giggle with happiness, you ask? Math. Yes, math. Spencer was firing addition problems at him, and Fos was adding them as quickly as he could, laughing like crazy every time he got them wrong. Which was a lot. He's only a first grader, afterall.

So, Fos didn't need Mommy hugs and deep breathing to get over his bout of sadness. He just needed his big brother to do some math with him. Who knew?

Now, I need to go get Spence and tuck him into his own bed, with extra kisses for his kindness to Fos. And maybe I should write a nice little note to the boys' teachers for tomorrow, just in case...

Cheers!

For all the ladies, as we begin a new year...

2011-12-26T11:13:00.000-08:00

As I sit here, the day after a wonderful Christmas, listening to all of the New Year’s commercials selling the message to all women that we need to lose weight or change our hair or invest a small fortune to hide all signs of aging (because, apparently, getting older is a BAD thing – I personally feel lucky for every minute I get!) or use products that will grow our wimpy eyelashes or grow our wimpy fingernails or get rid of our cellulite or hide our spider veins and then turn us into super women who can bring home the bacon, raise perfect children without ever resorting to putting them in front of the T.V. once in a while (where my kids are right now, as a matter of fact), make a nutritious, well-balanced dinner every night (not to mention breakfast and lunches) and be ready to leap enthusiastically into bed with our partners at a moment’s notice (without first needing a glass of wine or even a full night’s sleep)... I am reminded of all the wonderful women I have been lucky enough to know...

Women who occasionally feed their kids oatmeal for dinner, just ‘cuz they’re too dog-tired to whip up a balanced meal after working all day... Women who sometimes slip between the sheets at 8:30 pm, wearing comfy sweatpants, not silky lingerie, without (gasp!) washing off their make-up and applying wrinkle-reducing night cream first... Women who hang onto their clothes that are one size up, so they can be comfortable after a holiday spent indulging in every delicious food or drink they desire, rather than denying themselves and starving themselves to fit some advertiser’s definition of “beauty”...Women who are ballsy enough to say what’s on their mind and to stand up for what’s right, even if it’s not the most “feminine” thing to do...Women who have faced incredible challenges and losses in their lives with humor and chutzpah...Women who get up every day and get on with the business of living and working and caring for the people they love, even when they’d rather hide under the covers...Women who have made me laugh, made me cry, debated me, supported me, inspired me to appreciate my life with all of its hurdles and rewards, and women who care about me enough to always tell me when I have broccoli in my teeth.

Imperfectly perfect women!

Thanks for all the richness you have added to my life. You are beautiful, worthy, hilarious, stubborn, gifted, and unbelievably strong. Wishing you a happy, healthy, peaceful New Year!!!

2012...here we come!

Cheers!

Love,

Beth

Stop It...Santa Knows We're Being Naughty!!!

2011-12-24T17:50:00.000-08:00

My kids are finally at the age where they remind EACH OTHER that Santa is watching. It's GREAT! We had a glorious Christmas Eve Day today, largely due to the fact that if either boy was starting to do anything even remotely "naughty", his brother would quickly remind him to knock it off. Maybe it helped that we tracked Santa's progress on NORAD all morning....Maybe it helped that Santa actually called this morning to let the boys know he'd be here later on tonight...Maybe it helped that Santa sent each boy a personal video email message...I dunno. Overkill you say? Maybe. But, let's just say that technology does come with a few advantages, and I had a wonderful, peaceful, joyful Christmas Eve Day. So, whatever works.

Hubby dearest had to work as usual, so the boys and I did laundry first, just to get it out of the way (I've never had such eager laundry helpers, let me tell ya), then began our day of fun. (We spent yesterday afternoon buying last-minute groceries, picking out some toys for Toys for Tots, and letting each boy put some of his own money in the Salvation Army jar. Today, was devoted solely to fun. After the laundry, of course.) Anyway, then we Elfed-Ourselves, our cousins and our grandma and grandpy online, laughing hysterically the entire time. There is nothing funnier than watching my Dad break-dancing to "Jingle Bells", dressed in an elf outfit. If you haven't ever Elfed-Yourself, I highly recommend it. It's free, it's funny, and it's fabulous! Then, we started out a day of healthy eating (not!) with donuts and the candy I snuck in to a movie. Which movie? Well, we tried to go to "The Muppets", but we accidentally got pointed into the wrong theater and ended up watching "Alvin and The Chipmunks" instead. I have to say, that little Theodore chipmunk is just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. Not kidding. I wanted to take him home in my pocket. And, the movie had the right blend of adult humor and kid humor to keep us all highly entertained. We got home and baked cookies and, for the first time, meringues. Okay, have you ever baked meringues? It took me 35 minutes to get the batter to "form stiff peaks." 35 minutes! With a hand mixer, 'cuz I don't have the other kind. And, then, they take 2 hours to bake. If these little suckers don't come out tasting absolutely wonderful, I might have to have a mini-temper tantrum. Oh, better not...Santa's watching!

Now, we are settling in for our traditional Christmas Eve spaghetti feast. (Gotta carb-load for tomorrow's present-opening marathon, y'know.) Hubby dear just walked in the front door and is about to pour us a glass of something red and delicious. But, before I go, I have to document the wonderfully creative and unique letters my little boys wrote to Santa, yesterday. (They just couldn't wait until today.) All spelling and puntuation is exactly as written by the boys...

Spencer's letter:

To: Santa
From: Spencer
Marry Christmas! open me!

PLEASE Tell me How you Get into my House with out a chimny on it?

thanks! marry Ho! Ho!

Foster's letter:

to SAntA
from Foster

to SAntA from Fostee
I hope you heve a good ChristMas. And lots uv good cookys. And milc. you are a good raper. (Translation: "wrapper")

Happy holidays to you all. And, here's wishing us all a peaceful, healthy, and more prosperous new year.

Cheers!

Old wounds...

2011-11-25T19:11:00.000-08:00

Last Christmas morning, my beloved little dog, Cosmo, suddenly and tragically died. It was an awful Christmas, and I couldn't wait for it to be over. I miss his fuzzy little presence, but I've adjusted to life without him over the last year. I've been doing just fine. Until today, when I opened up the bins of Christmas decorations to begin my annual day-after-Thanksgiving decorating bonanza. Foster was "helping" me. Translation: taking everything out of the bins in no particular order, and tossing them around the room, creating total chaos and confusion. After a while, he came to the bin that had our family's Christmas stockings.

"Here's Daddy's stocking!"

"Here's Spencer's!"

"Ooooh, here's MINE! And, yours too, Mommy."

"Here's Lucy's stocking!"

"Oh, here's Cosmo's stocking, Mommy. Where are we going to hang it?"

Next thing I knew, I was bawling my eyes out...
It's amazing how quickly old wounds can re-open, isn't it? And I've been crying off and on all day long.

By the way...I hung Cosmo's stocking right next to his picture.

I wish he was here.

Ahhh..the irony.

2011-11-16T16:37:00.000-08:00

Coming home from work just now, I was behind an SUV at a red light. A HUGE bumper sticker across the back of the car stated "Remember Anna. Keep your eyes on the road!" Great sentiment, right? Except for the fact that the driver was texting and didn't even notice when the light changed. I had to honk my horn to get her attention. Sigh.

Cheers!

Spencer Wisdom

2011-11-12T16:29:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago, I was tucking Spence into bed, which involves singing 3 songs and then having a long conversation about whatever may be running around in that amazing little brain (his, not mine), followed by "snuggles." The whole thing only takes about 10 minutes, and it's one of my favorite times of the day. Unless, to be honest, it's been one of those days where I'm just counting the minutes until I can be responsibility-free, in my pj's, glass of cabernet in hand, channel surfing under my snuggly electric blanket....Then, the 10 minute routine can seem endless. I'm not gonna lie. I have those days.

Anyhoo...We'd finished our songs, and Spence started talking about things he wonders about. Typically, this involves thoughts on robots, alien life forms, or some sort of scientific invention. This time, it was a bit different:

"Mom?"
"Yes, sweetie."
"I've been thinking a lot about caterpillars."
"Really?"
"You know, caterpillars build cocoons around themselves and stay there for a long time, right?"
"Mmm Hmm."
"And, then, without even moving around at all, they somehow get wings and turn into butterflies."
"I know."
"It's the most amazing thing, isn't it Mom?"
"Definitely."
"And, it doesn't take any technology at all! Isn't that the coolest thing?"

In this electronic age, when people line up days in advance for the next fabulous gadget from Apple, families eat dinner without ever looking up from their cell phones, and the number of Facebook "friends" is a status symbol, MY boy marvels at the transformation of a butterfly. THAT'S the coolest thing!

Cheers!

OK, OK, I'm a dinosaur.

2011-09-28T20:14:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, we were the last people I knew to get a microwave and a color T.V. It didn't matter how passionately we begged, pleaded, cried, and insisted that "Everyone, absolutely EVERYONE else has one!!!"

Why?

Because, in my youthful opinion, my Dad was stuck in the stone age. Afraid to try new things. Afraid to embrace new technology. Stubbornly clinging to the ways of the past. An old fogey...

Apparently, I have now become my own father.

Yes, I do have a microwave and not one, but TWO color T.V.'s in my house. One of them is even a flat screen. But, I only have basic cable and the other T.V. is one of those huge, boxy old Sony's. I don't have DVR features or picture-in-picture or anything fancy like that. I still use a VCR to record programs, and I honestly have no idea what the difference is between a regular DVD and a Blue Ray. Whatever.

And, I have a blog. That's embracing new things, right? I'm contemporary, dammit! Instead of journaling the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper, I type. But, I don't do Facebook or Twitter, which I've been told you absolutely MUST do, if you want anyone other than your family members to actually read your blog. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I want to communicate in full sentences and paragraphs, not in "tweets." Whatever they are.

I did finally cave in and buy a cell phone last year as well. Again, embracing new things. But, it's just one of those pre-paid trac phones, and I don't know how (nor do I want to learn how) to text. I prefer the sound of someone's voice to the beep,beep of text messages. Plus, I'm trying to avoid carpal tunnel of the thumbs, which I hear is on the rise in frequent texters. I think I will probaby have to embrace texting, once my boys become teenagers, but who knows what will have been invented by then, anyway? Maybe we'll be communicating via telepathy or something...

But, this is where I draw the line...Books. Books, books, wonderful books! I'm sorry, folks, but I have no interest in reading books off of a Kindle or iPad or any of those other fancy schmancy devices. Call me old-fashioned. Say I'm a dinosaur. I care not. There is nothing like an actual, real, book, and no expensive little device is ever going to replace the experience of reading one. Yes, I know you can get ones that actually simulate the turning of a page, but you're not actually TURNING a page. You're not feeling the weight of the book in your hands, or smelling that unique "book-y" smell, or having any of the other experiences one has with a real book. No more perusing used book stores and wondering how many others read the same book over the years...No more sitting on the couch with a little boy in your lap, helping him turn the pages all by himself....No more passing on a great book you've just read to your best friend or your brother or that nice stranger on the airplane, knowing they'll be holding the very same book you held, holding their breath at the very same places you did, and coming across the spot where you accidentally spilled your coffee...No more accidentally dropping your book into the bathtub, but not worrying about it, because you know you can just blow the pages dry...And no more late nights reading a book by flashlight, so your Mom or your Dad (or your husband) won't know you're up late, glued to the pages...

So, I embrace my old-fogey ways, and I raise a glass of wine in tribute to my dear ol' Dad. And, now, I'm going to turn off my clunky, 5-year old computer and go read a book. A real one.

Cheers!

Mutants?

2011-09-24T19:02:00.000-07:00

I am, in no way, bug-phobic. I'm used to bugs. I mean, come ON, I live in the soggy, humid Pacific Northwest. I expect to deal with slugs and yellow jackets and mosquitos. I even expect to deal with the clouds of fruit flies that always appear toward the end of August and seem to multiply and multiply and multiply...and then suddenly vanish in September. And, being the mother of two young boys, I've had to learn to appreciate all of the roly poly bugs, assorted beetles, spiders, and ants they bring to my attention (or occasionally put right into my hand, when I'm least expecting it) in a whole new way...

But this Fall, there's something new in town...

What is it? Well, I've never actually seen one up close enough to really identify it, but my neck, scalp, face, feet, fingers, arms, elbows, and even my earlobes, are covered with tiny, red, incredibly itchy bites. I mean the kind of itch you wouldn't wish on the girl who stole your boyfriend right out from under you in college. (Well, to be honest, you might wish it on HER.) The kind of itch that keeps you up at night, as you toss and turn, trying everything to resist scratching. The kind of itch that must be scratched, resulting in unattractive scabs all over your face and body, because everyone knows you can't stop once you start... Are you getting the picture? And, these tiny terrorists are FAST! They swoop in, attack, and swoop out again, before you can squish them the way they deserve to be squished. Now, if your mind went to fleas or bedbugs or some other sort of disgusting household infestation, it's not either of those. These particular mutants are some sort of microscopic flying bugs-from-HELL that live outside and attack relentlessly just before sunset.

How do I know this?

I know this, because my husband and I are still trying to rebuild the back deck we had to rip out three months ago because of wood rot. (Thank you, once again, to the morons who originally built the deck, but didn't bother to attach flashing to the side of the house, resulting in the afore-mentioned wood rot running all along the wall, into the siding, and even into the floorboards. We really appreciated having to rip out a huge section of our wall, paying a contractor to fix the rot we couldn't do ourselves, and then rebuilding the deck. Thank you very friggin' much.) Anyhoo...Because of this never-ending project, hubby and I are frequently out in the backyard after work around sunset, digging trenches, burying concrete blocks, attaching joist hangers, laying down planks...AND, NOW, BEING EATEN ALIVE BY TINY, HORRIBLE, BLOOD-SUCKING FLYING PARASITES!!!

Where did they come from?

Why do they love the taste of our flesh so much?

WILL THEY EVER LEAVE???

Here's hoping you have managed to avoid these mutants. Unless you're the girl who stole my boyfriend in college...

Cheers!

10 Years Later...

2011-09-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, today, I was a newlywed in my 30's, trying to capture a few more minutes of sleep before getting ready for work. Suddenly, my husband burst in, telling me that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I rushed to the living room and we both stood, transfixed, watching the images from New York City -- Smoke and flames billowing from the North Tower, highlighted against an amazingly clear, blue sky...I had been a nanny in New York for 2 years, taking care of two amazing children who lived just across the Brooklyn Bridge from the tragedy unfolding before our eyes. Immediately, I thought of them, and of their Dad, who worked in one of the office buildings on Wall Street. I closed my eyes and hoped with all of my heart that their family was safe. I was still standing there, glued to the screen, as my husband reluctantly went to shower in preparation for work. Moments later, the second plane slammed into the South Tower. I don't remember what I yelled, but John was out of the shower in a heartbeat, wrapped in a towel, watching in shocked amazement by my side. That was the moment when we, along with the rest of the country, realized this was no accident, but a deliberate, premeditated attack against America.

The rest of the day remains a bit of a blur, but certain moments stand out in stark contrast to the fuzziness of the rest...Seeing the images of people throwing themselves from windows to escape the fire...The faces of New Yorkers as they stared in horror at the spectacle...The surreal moment when the first tower collapsed -- images of the smoke and debris and terrified people running for their lives...Hearing that the Pentagon had been hit...That another plane had gone down in Shanksville...The fear of not knowing if any of the planes overhead were being piloted by terrorists...Standing alongside my fellow staff members at school, our faces pale with shock, wondering how we were going to take care of the children under our care, even as each of us wanted only to gather closely to our loved ones and to remain riveted to our televisions and radios for every new moment of news...

And, here we are, ten years later. Once again, I've been riveted to the television all morning, as the memorials take place at Ground Zero, the Pentagon, and in Shanksville. My husband and I held hands as Paul Simon sang "The Sound of Silence", tears running down our cheeks... As the faces, names, and ages of people who died scrolled across the bottom of the screen, I noticed, in particular, the photos of a young father and his two children, aged 3 and 8, who were killed that terrible morning. Ten years ago, I hadn't yet experienced the profound, shocking, life-changing love that overtakes you, when you become a parent. But, now, as the mother of two beloved little boys, I read those names and broke down again, imagining the pain that family members must have felt at that moment, and still feel today...

I remember the feeling that seemed to sweep across our nation at that time. Patriotism. Compassion. Pulling together... I remember feeling connected to something bigger than just my own corner of Washington State. I remember people making eye contact with one another, smiling at one another, reaching out to help one another. I remember media messages filled with hope and optimism and stories about the courage and resilience of the American people, and how we can overcome anything if we come together in unity. Unity... One would hope that an event of this magnitude would permanently change a country for the better.

One would hope...

And, yet, as I reflect on where we are today, a decade after the horrific events of September 11, 2001, I feel a profound sense of disappointment. Instead of becoming stronger as a nation, we are more fractured than ever. Instead of using 9/11 as a wake-up call to mobilize as a country to end our dependence on foreign oil and to invest in renewable energy resources, we went to war. As a result, ten years later, thousands upon thousands of young men and women are still losing their lives, forever altering the lives of the family and friends who love and need them...And, as we spout rhetoric about being a free country in which every individual has the right to worship, or not worship, as he or she desires, anti-Muslim sentiment abounds. Ten years later, on our own soil, Muslim families are experiencing acts of hatred and intolerance that should make every American stand up and say "Enough! This is NOT how we behave in my country!"...Ten years later, we connect with others, not face-to-face, with smiles, handshakes, hugs, and eye contact, but with text messages and tweets. Instead of walking across the street to chat with neighbors, people hide in their houses and Facebook their 500 "friends"... And, while just one decade ago, members of Congress stood as one and sang "God Bless America" in unison, ten years later, members of the Republican party in Congress have openly stated that their only objective is to make sure that Barack Obama is a one-term President. They are proudly content to sit back and do nothing to help people who are suffering in our country, or to invest in the education of our promising young people, or to rebuild our infrastructure, or to address the catastrophic results of climate change around the globe, because that would mean working cooperatively with the Democrats they have sworn to defeat, no matter what...

Unity? Strength? Courage? Resilience? Hope?

What have we really learned?...

When hair coloring goes horribly wrong...

2011-08-03T20:31:00.000-07:00

I WISH I could say that this post is about somebody ELSE'S hair coloring disaster...Unfortunately, it's about me. So, in order to spare anyone reading this from the same horrible accident that befell me approximately 20 minutes ago, I'd like to share this tip:

When coloring your hair, don't assume that every clock in the house is displaying the same time. When you glance at the clock to see what time you started the coloring process, use the same clock for ending the coloring process. Otherwise, you may find yourself, like me, with hair that was supposed to be a nice shade of light auburn, but is now about the same shade as Little Orphan Annie's hair, all because you changed rooms and used a different clock to monitor the timing, which resulted in the hair color staying on a full 10 minutes longer than it's supposed to.

Yeah.

Ten minutes really makes a difference.

Wait 'til my hubby gets home from soccer practice...

At least it's 3 more weeks until I go back to work. I can just wear hats and shampoo my hair 3 times a day in hopes that my current, dazzling shade of BRIGHT orange will fade to something resembling "light auburn."

Sigh.

This either makes me a really stellar Mom or one of the worst Moms in history. You be the judge.

2011-07-27T20:02:00.000-07:00

Today is Foster's 6th birthday. He had YMCA Superhero camp all day, today, so I jumped out of bed at 6:30am and ran out to get the traditional Birthday Donuts (the way we begin every birthday in our little family), so he'd have that before going to camp for the day. Hubby and I had put up decorations last night, and we let him open one present this morning, before he left. We also bought enough cookies to feed the entire camp, so Fos would be able to share something special with his fellow campers and camp counselors. We were really looking forward to doing the big celebration, when he and Spence got home.

Another family tradition is "The Birthday Code." This particular tradition involves hiding presents in various locations around the house, and the birthday kiddo decoding special messages to find them. I worked on the coded messages last night, so all I had to do was hide the presents in their assigned secret spots. Fos loves figuring out the coded messages, so I knew he'd be excited.

John left to pick the boys up for camp, while I hid the presents, brought out the camera, got the cake ready (adding sprinkles, because, frankly, the cake was a bit lame, considering what we paid for it), and popped a pizza in the oven. I could hardly wait to see Foster and to celebrate his special day with our family!

Then, John walked in. One look at his face, and I knew it hadn't been a good day at camp. Nope. Not good at all. BOTH boys were written up at camp, today. Spence, for uttering, in frustration, a certain expression he picked up from a fellow First Grader this Spring: "Son-of-a-b-----!" (Now, there is one expletive that I am fully guilty of uttering from time-to-time, especially when Lucy digs up my vegetables, so I'd be willing to accept responsibility, if that's what he had said. But, it wasn't. Therefore, not my fault. Not this time. I can blame it on a kid, instead. Someone else's kid, even. Whew!) Fos, my challenging, impulsive little Fos, was written up for being mean to a girl camper and for being disrespectful to his camp counselors. On. His. Birthday. Great.

So, what are you supposed to do in this situation? Here's your little boy. Love of your life. Just turned 6 years old, and you want to lavish him with love and attention and the presents you picked out especially for him, just to celebrate his very existence and to show him how lucky you feel to have him in your life. But, how is that possible, when he just got formally written up for being rotten all day??? He violated our family rules and the camp rules, and we're going to give him cake and ice cream? How does that make sense, or teach him any responsibility for his actions???

But, how do you take away your kid's birthday? I mean, seriously, how do you do that?

I'll tell you how, and I'm starting to cry again, right here at the computer, just thinking about it:

Step One: Have an emergency parent meeting in the kitchen. In urgent whispers, try to come to some kind of consensus about the right thing to do.

Step Two: Start to cry, when you realize that you and your hubby are about to take away your kid's birthday celebration.

Step Three: Pull yourself together, and have a family meeting in the living room, during which you talk about the behaviors that were not appropriate, let your children know that you love them very much, but that you do not love the choices they have made, and then ask, "Do you think that you deserve a birthday celebration after the choices you made today?" (Crossing your fingers, knowing the answer could go either way.) When the birthday boy looks up at you with big, sad, blue eyes and says, "No, I don't.", you quickly walk into the kitchen, again, so that he won't see the tears welling up in your eyes.

Step Four: You realize that there is no friggin' way you are going to be able to pull yourself together, so you look up at your husband with your own big, sad, weepy eyes, silently begging him to take over from here. He recognizes that you are losing it, so he takes charge of the kids, while you quickly put away the birthday cake, and then throw yourself onto your bed, where you sob uncontrollably at the very thought of NOT celebrating your baby's birthday with him today.

Step Five: The phone rings. It's Grandma and Grampy, calling to sing "Happy Birthday" to their grandson. Instead, they get to listen to their adult daughter having an emotional meltdown for 10 full minutes. Not quite what they were expecting...

Step Six: Hubby leaves for his soccer game. You take birthday boy into his room to tuck him in. Before you can help yourself, you are sobbing again. Then, he falls apart. Thinking he is upset about his presents and cake, you ask him why he is sad. His reply? "Because I made you cry, Mommy. Please don't cry anymore." Ouch. Physical pain to the heart.

Step Seven: You and birthday boy cling to each other, bawling your eyes out for a few minutes. Then, you grab the kleenex so you can both blow your noses. You tell him, again, that you love him very much, and that he will have the chance to make tomorrow a "do-over day." He clings to you once more, then looks up at you with those eyes, those eyes that can break your heart, and says, "You are the best Mommy in the universe." Which, of course, makes you start to cry all over again. Because you are the very same Mommy who took away his birthday celebration. And, he still thinks you're the best Mommy in the universe.

What. A. Day.

God, being a parent is tough.

So, did I do the right thing? I guess that time will tell...

Cheers!

"Relaxion"

2011-07-22T19:31:00.000-07:00

OK, my husband can officially no longer be called “unromantic”. He planned a wonderful, surprise 10th Anniversary trip for us. Yes, it was a family trip, but, given that we don’t have any relatives that can take the boys for us (All of you Moms who are lucky enough to have relatives who'll take the kids for a weekend, or a night, or even a couple of hours in the afternoon -- you have NO idea how fortunate you are! Hug those relatives. Hug them hard.), he managed to make it romantic as well as full of family fun. We drove as far as Ellensburg Sunday afternoon and stayed the night there at just a regular Quality Inn. Then, got up early the next morning and drove to Coeur D’Alene, ID, arriving at lunchtime, where we checked in to the Coeur D’Alene resort (a place I have ALWAYS wanted to stay) into THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ROOM I HAVE EVER SEEN! We were on the 17th floor, with a view of the entire Coeur D’Alene lake. We had our own fireplace, mirrors that reflected light all over the place, so that it felt like we were in some sort of tropical paradise, a separate living room area with a daybed, and have I mentioned the view??? John and I spent most of our free time wrapped in our super-soft white hotel robes, sitting out on our balcony, watching the boats coming and going, people walking along the marina, drinking wine, and just talking. (We brought 3 bottles of Hot to Trot with us on our trip, as well as a few Coronas for daytime.) I’m telling you, this is how the OTHER HALF LIVES. This is the kind of place those people benefitting from all the Bush tax cuts go to stay, not regular folks like us. Way out of our league, and I don’t even want to know what it cost, but it was so wonderful!!! I appreciated every single little thing about it, from the nightly mints accompanying our next day weather forecast on our pillows, to the awesome massaging shower head in the bathroom.

Rich folks who do this sort of thing all the time, probably don't notice the details anymore. Not me. I noticed EVERYTHING!

We hung out in our incredibly gorgeous room for a while, had a couple of beers on our balcony, then went out to lunch and headed to Silverwood Theme Park, where we spent the entire afternoon having a total blast. The boys got to go on their very first rollercoaster (a wooden one called “Tremors” that traumatized Spencer: “I didn’t like that one. Nope. Didn’t like it. Let’s not do that one again, OK?”, scared the hell out of me, thrilled John, and semi-terrified Foster. As he put it, “There were parts of that ride that were really fun and parts that were NOT!”), we got soaked on the family water ride, we got pink and freckly in the sunshine, the boys noshed on theme park food, and we all just had a great time. Spencer decided that he would try a different rollercoaster that corkscrewed around, so he and I went on that one together, while John took Foster to play a few games. Spence loved it, and I re-discovered (after at least a decade away from rollercoasters) that motion sickness and corkscrew rollercoasters don’t mix very well. Luckily, it was an extremely short ride. After that, I stuck to non-spinning rides. John wanted to go on a crazy loop-de-loop coaster where the people ride with their feet hanging free. Neither of the boys were big enough to go on it, so I was off the hook as well. I took the boys on the log flume ride, instead, and the three of us had so much fun. There were grins, giggles, and lots of hugs and kisses, followed by exclamations such as: "This is the best family vacation EVER!", "You are the best Mommy and Daddy in the entire universe!", "This is totally awesome!!!" None of us wanted to leave when the day was over...

We picked up Chinese food on the way home and took it back to our room...For some reason, it felt extra decadent to be noshing on Chinese food from cardboard boxes in that gorgeous, luxury room! Then it was time to hit the hotel pool & hot tubs for a while. We came back and let the kids watch the Disney channel until they fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, while John and I sat out on the balcony drinking our wine and enjoying the view. We stayed up way too late, just talking and reminiscing and reconnecting and fantasizing about vacations we’d love to take some day if we ever hit the lottery...it was lovely.

Next morning: Breakfast at one of the hotel restaurants. BEST BELGIAN WAFFLE I HAVE EVER EATEN. No joke. It was like a party in my mouth. A really great party, with lots of celebrities and cool music and fancy beverages with umbrellas. Fantastic! Foster said the same thing about his pancakes. He kept saying, “These pancakes are GREAT! They’re the GREATEST, Mom. Really! GREAT!” He even thanked the waitress for “making me the greatest pancakes I’ve ever had.” So cute.

Then, we just spent the whole day playing around the hotel and the harbor. We walked all around the pier, played on the beach, played in Coeur D’Alene park, did more swimming and frolicking in the pools, lounged on our balcony, wandered around the shops, etc. Dinner back at the same restaurant where we had breakfast...amazing, again. Topped it off with more lounging, wine drinking, and soaking in the view from the balcony that night, while the boys slept. A perfect mix of relaxing and action. We even invented a word that summed it up: “Relaxtion”. Wonderful day.

Slept in the next day (even the boys) and then hit the road around noon. The drive home was nice, though. We took lots of time, stopped at viewpoints and anywhere else we felt like it along the way, did Mad Libs with the kids, sang "Dynamite" and "Raise Your Glass" about 75 times, and still got home around 8:00.

Last night, we topped it off by getting a babysitter and heading out for a real “date”. Dinner and a movie, just like the old days.

Great 10 year Anniversary! Thank you, sweetie, for making it one I will never forget.

Here’s to the next decade. May it bring good health, a bit more wealth (or at least financial security, for a change), and continued laughter and love!

Cheers!

Education Schmeducation!

2011-07-13T11:15:00.000-07:00

Spoiler Alert: As a mom, as an educator, and as a very disillusioned and frustrated U.S. citizen, I'm hopping mad about what the Republican party is doing right now, and I'm about to express that. Forcefully.

This week, the Republican controlled House of Representatives voted to increase the military's budget by double-digits. (That's billions, by the way. Double digit billions.) This is at the same time they are supposedly fighting to decrease our nation's debt. Actually, they're holding raising the debt ceiling hostage in order to get more of what their special interest groups want, rather than what our country actually needs in order to grow, to prosper, and to compete in our global economy. What do the Republicans want? Major cuts to all social services intended to help the poor, the elderly, and children, of course. Who cares about the poor? I mean, come ON. They should just pull themselves up by their bootstraps like everybody else, right? And, children? Who needs 'em? Let 'em take care of themselves!
Along with that, our Republican representatives want to make sure that we don't invest in our country's future by:

1) Investing in the development of renewable energy resources. After all, why should we worry about, or take any responsibility for, global warming and other threats to our environment, right? Let's just leave that to places like Norway to figure out. And, why should we actually attempt to be innovative and creative and come up with new ideas that we can then export to other countries, when we can just sit back and wait for OTHER countries to invent things that we can then buy from them?

2) Improving our country's falling-apart infrastructure. A major job creator, by the way. Hmmmm...

3) And, have I mentioned investing in educating America's youth, so that our entire country can benefit? Republicans don't seem to see anything wrong with continuing to cut and cut and cut education funding, pretty much guaranteeing that the United States will continue to fall behind countries that actually consider the education of their children to be one of the most important ways a country can invest in itself and sustain growth and innovation and competitiveness around the globe.

So, let's continue to ramp up military spending, keep open tax loopholes that allow the very rich to escape the same tax burdens faced by the middle class, keep cutting education funding to ensure that millions of children are kept ignorant, so that they will grow up and vote for idiocy and stagnation, rather than becoming the kind of critical thinkers that will question their government and vote for innovation and progress, let the poor suffer the consequences of their poverty without support or programs to help them climb out of the hole in which they find themselves, allow sick children of poor and middle class families to suffer without adequate health insurance, while the rich enjoy the benefits of the best healthcare their money can buy (after all, they've got all that extra income from the Bush tax loopholes), suppress acceptance of diversity by continuing to deny marriage rights to loving gay couples and to insist that church dogma has any valid place in politics, make sure that no woman has the right to choose (again, ensuring that the cycle of poverty and ignorance continues, thereby providing the Republican party with more future voters), and do whatever we can to make sure that every single household has both a bible and a gun!

'Cuz that's an America in which I want my two little boys to grow up!

NOT!

And, for anyone who is saying that Republicans are as open to across-the-board reforms as Democrats, here's a quote I saw on MSNBC this week:

Rep. Barney Frank, D-Mass, scoffed at the suggestion that "everything is on the table" in budget negotiations between the Obama administration and congressional leaders.
"The military budget is not on the table," he said. "The military is at the table, and it is eating everybody else's lunch."

I'm going to go hug my boys, now. I hope they get to grow up in a country that models acceptance and tolerance, that recognizes that the Constitution was designed to be a set of living guidelines that are adapted as our country grows, and that invests in education and innovation and the health and happiness of its citizens. But, I admit that I'm feeling pretty discouraged right now...

What a GAS!

2011-07-10T10:23:00.000-07:00

OK, I admit it...

I'm a little embarrassed about it, though...

I'm having a hard time actually typing the words...

Here goes...

Whoopee Cushions are hilarious! Seriously. Hilarious.

I had no idea just how hilarious Whoopee Cushions can be, until my boys each received one as a birthday gift from their wonderful surrogate grandparents this morning. (We love you, Laureta and Joe!) They'd never seen one before, so I explained the concept, all while mentally cringing inside at what this gift was about to unleash in my living room.

As it turns out...it was side-splittingly funny watching my little boys blowing up the Whoopee Cushions, finding all sorts of creative ways to sit on them (over the pillow, under the pillow, on the ottoman, on the couch, on the floor, the flying leap-sit, the slow-motion rolling sit, etc., etc...) and then laughing hysterically each time they heard the gaseous result.

So, I had to take a break from deck demolition (Sigh. A topic for another time...) to document the addition of Whoopee Cushions into our lives. And, I sign off now, as the music of loud farting floats through my house, accompanied by the giggles and guffaws of two little boys, who are in Whoopee Cushion Heaven.

Cheers!

Things you just never realized. Oy!

2011-04-16T09:46:00.000-07:00

I've talked about this before, but it bears repeating...Because, being the only woman in a house with one husband and two small boys continually makes me realize things I'd never quite grasped in the past:

1) Boys really are completely fascinated by their own penises from a very young age. It's a fact. Based on the behavior of adult males, this fascination apparently never goes away. Explains a lot...

2) It is 100% possible for a home to go from completely clean to looking like a tornado literally blew through it, scattering couch pillows, books, toys, papers, and clothes in all directions, depositing dirt and mud and sticks and grass on the just-swept floor....in the time it takes for one husband, one five-year-old boy, and one six-year-old boy to walk in the front door, through the living room, and into the kitchen. That's about two minutes. Two. Minutes. (By the way, it takes far less time than that, for one exhausted, working Mom, who just cleaned that house while the boys were outside, to completely lose her mind!)

3) It is apparently physically impossible for males to get all of their pee into the toilet. Doesn't make sense to me, either. I mean, they've got equipment that actually allows them to AIM their pee. They can write their names in the snow with the stuff, if they want to. So, why is it that boys (and...ahem....men) can't just aim it at the water and GET IT ALL IN??? Thankfully, I have mostly managed to browbeat my husband and sons into cleaning up their drips afterwards. The mystery is why there are drips in the first place...

4) There are a LOT of different words for vomit. Something I'd never really thought of until two days ago, when Spence came up to us and asked us if there are other ways to say "throwing up." My husband's apparent glee at generating a list of vomit words was a bit disturbing. But there really are a lot of them, when you think about it. Which I don't recommend doing, by the way. Still, it was slightly fascinating to watch these two males-of-the-species -- one small boy and one very large boy in a man's body -- enthusiastically coming up with all the different puke words they could think of and high-fiving each other after each one. I just can't imagine a little girl having the same conversation with her Mommy. But, maybe I'm wrong. One thing is sure, with two little boys, I'll never know...

I can only imagine what new discoveries lie ahead for me -- the lone female representative in this family -- once my boys hit puberty... Yikes.

Cheers!

You seriously couldn't wait until AFTER you were done peeing? Seriously?!!!

2011-03-24T20:06:00.000-07:00

Last night, I met a girlfriend at a local bar for a beverage. (This is a rare and wonderful occurrence, which always reminds me that I am more than a wife/mother/counselor. I am also a somewhat sassy, frequently funny, often obnoxiously opinionated woman, who is actually capable of carrying on a conversation that is not about kids, husbands, housework, or mental health issues.) Anyway, at some point during our blissful evening away from all domestic and work responsibilities, I had to pee. So, I went into my stall, and I was getting ready to do my thing, when I heard the bathroom door squeak open and the sound of high heels click-clicking across the floor. The stall door next to me opened up, and I could hear the unseen lady getting settled on her seat...

Then, I heard her punching numbers into her cell phone...

Then, I heard her start yakking to somebody on the other end...

THEN, I heard her peeing. Yes, people, yakking and peeing at the same time.

I'm sorry, but what could be so important to say, that you couldn't wait a couple of minutes, until you're at least done peeing?!!! I mean, COME ON! Is there no limit to the madness???

So, to any of my friends who may be out there reading this... PLEASE pee before you call me or answer a call from me. Nothing we have to say to each other is so crucial that it can't wait until after you've answered the call of nature.

Cheers!

I'll show you mine, if you show me yours!

2011-03-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

Parenthood is just one giant adventure. Unexpected events happen constantly, from bus disasters to more bus disasters to stuffed animal catastrophes...just one big surprise after another...after another...after another. Guess what? We had another one last night. Lucky us!

The phone rang about 7:30pm. Hubby was doing something on the computer (of course!), Foster was running around in his pj's looking for leprechauns, Spence was in the tub, and I was attempting to lie down for a few minutes before storytime. I heard a deep voice on the answering machine, and I suddenly realized it was the principal from the boys' school. Calling at 7:30 at night. There's just no way a nighttime phone call from your kids' principal can be good!

I yelled for John to answer the phone, and then flew down the hallway, so that I could hover near him, listening to his side of the conversation and anxiously trying to piece together what was happening. I couldn't tell which kid it was about, but I heard things like "On the bus?!!", "Last Thursday?", "No, he didn't say anything to us about it.", "Oh yes, definitely inappropriate.", "Yes, he knows that private parts are private.", "Was the parent upset?"

Hmmmmm....

As it turns out, yesterday afternoon, a parent called the principal to tell him that her child had seen some first graders showing eachother "their butts" on the school bus the week before. Her kid identified a first grade girl (the very same girl Spencer recently identified as his - gulp - girlfriend"). Of course, the alarmed parent immediately called the principal, worried that there was some sort of hanky panky going on. He interviewed the girl and found out that she had two accomplices....Spencer and his best friend. When he pulled Spence in to his office, Spencer was very upfront and honest about his participation. (The principal said he was having a hard time keeping a straight face, because Spence was so serious and apologetic.) Apparently, all three kids decided to check out each other's parts, even though they knew they weren't supposed to. As if that wasn't bad enough, for some inexplicable reason, they thought that the school bus ride home was a good time and place to do it. And, according to both boys, the whole thing was the girl's idea! Wow. I hope her parents are ready...

Needless to say, we had another long conversation with both of our boys last night...Very serious. With no giggling on the part of the grownups (at least not until the boys were asleep, that is).

Another one for the memory books...

Cheers!

Vindication for women and girls EVERYWHERE!

2011-03-12T08:32:00.000-08:00

In a pitiful attempt to lessen the stress in my life, Friday night is always "Mommy Movie Night." This means that I do the typical frantic race across town after work to meet the boys' bus, but then we jump in the car, drive straight to Little Caesar's Pizza and order Combination #1 (large pepperoni plus crazy break, of course), then walk next door to the local video place to rent movies. The boys each get to pick one cartoon to watch sometime later in the week, and I pick out a family movie for us all to watch together. (Translation: A kid movie that I can stomach watching as well, usually a classic like "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" or "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" or "Doctor Doolittle" -- Not the crappy remake with Eddie Murphy, but the classic with Rex Harrison and the Push-Me-Pull-You.) Then, the three of us pile the pizza, the movies, and ourselves back into the car, come home and change into pj's, I pour the boys some milk and myself a glass of cabernet, and we all settle in for a movie picnic. If we're lucky, and John's crazy schedule works out for us that day, it turns into a "Family Movie Night" with Daddy along for the ride. (Also in his pj's. PJ's are a requirement.)

Anyhoo ... (too late to make this long story a short one, eh?) ...

Last night, I chose "Harry and the Hendersons" for Mommy Movie Night. It actually turned into Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, and Grandpa Movie Night, because John's shift was an early one, and my folks came into town to visit us for the weekend. Yay! I admit that I did relax the pajama requirement for my folks, especially since my Mom is fond of wearing long, see-through nightgowns, and my Dad sleeps in his tighty whiteys.

So, after the Bigfoot has come into the house and totally trashed the joint, the movie Dad asks his movie kids how they know that the Bigfoot is a male, instead of a female.

That's when my little genius, Spencer, turned around and said, "Oh, it's easy to tell, you guys. It's 'cuz boys make huge messes all the time, but girls are much, much cleaner."

EXACTLY!

Cheers!

No wonder women ignore the signs of a heart attack. How can we even tell the difference between a heart attack and just living life?

2011-03-05T15:50:00.000-08:00

I had a pretty weird few days. I was at a work conference on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Sunday night, my chest was feeling sort of tight, like I was being gently squished, but it also felt like my diaphragm was being sort of squeezed upward. I’ve never had heartburn or indigestion, before, but I assumed that’s what it was. My hotel roommate gave me some of her tums, but it didn’t do anything. So, I just kept going at the conference. Still feeling the pressure, but it wasn’t anything that I couldn’t breathe through or work with. Eating didn’t make it any better or worse, and I didn’t have a fever or any other symptoms.

Then, on Thursday morning, I woke up with it really bugging me, then it started to sort of burn across my chest and up into my shoulder and neck a little bit, so I called my doctor. They sent me immediately to the Emergency Room. They ruled out an immediate heart attack pretty quickly, but they couldn’t figure out what was going on. I couldn’t reach the hubby, since he was driving a shift, so I was all alone, freaked out, while they did EKG’s and gave me nitroglycerine and baby aspirin and took blood and did other tests, etc., etc.. Because I have a left ventricular bundle branch block in my heart, it makes reading my EKG’s next to impossible, because they all come out looking wacko. With my strange health history – mini stroke, avascular necrosis, busted thyroid – they were afraid to just let me go, so they admitted me. This meant that I sat in the back corner of a cubicle in the ER for another hour or so, all alone, while they tried to find me a bed upstairs. Since I still hadn’t talked to John, I was trying to figure out who might be able to pick up the boys and get them settled, if necessary. I don’t have a cell phone, so I couldn’t call anybody just to keep me company or to get the ball rolling with a plan for the kids. The only phone in the ER was attached to the wall, and I was forbidden to get up and move around. On the plus side, I did get to listen to the drunk guy who’d just gotten in a car accident giving the nurses and attendants all kinds of trouble. It was pretty entertaining. Lots of cussing and threatening and thrashing going on. Then there were calls for "Technicians! Stat!", followed by the sound of clomping feet and deep voices and then more whining and crying from the patient, as he swore up and down that he'd sue every single person who was holding him down. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it through the skinny little curtain. At least it took my mind off of things for a while. It was like listening to an episode of Grey's Anatomy, without being able to see the picture. Oh, and the other plus side to this whole situation, was that my ER doctor looked EXACTLY like the guy from the TV show Castle. I don’t know if you’ve seen that show, but the resemblance was uncanny. Could’ve been his twin brother. And that’s a good thing...I felt surprisingly calm staring into his warm, concerned, blue eyes.
Anyway, I got admitted upstairs, where they did another unreadable EKG, gave me more nitroglycerine, took more blood, and I can’t remember what else. I finally reached John, and he and my friend (who had gamely driven me to the ER earlier that morning) put their heads together to see if they could get the boys picked up and my van back from the school (staff members’ cars tend to get vandalized, when left in the school parking lot. Hmmmm..) Then, John was able to come and see me for just a little bit to bring me contact solution and pj’s and stuff like that. The on-call doc (not my gorgeous Castle doctor from the ER) explained that they still didn’t really know what was going on. They were going to try to see if there was something going on in my G.I. tract, since my heart seemed to be doing OK and my blood pressure was stable and fine. So, they made me drink the “G.I. Cocktail”, which was a horrendous pinkish white slushee, that I had to gulp down to see if it would numb my G.I. tract and give me some relief. All it did was make my tongue go numb. I still felt the pain and pressure on either side of my sternum, mostly left side. So, they just gave me morphine, put me back on oxygen, and kept me all night, waking me up to do the various vital checks all night long. In the morning, my nurse gave me valium, to see if it would lessen the pressure. It did take the edge off of the pain, and I didn’t feel like I was being squeezed quite as tightly. So, my doctor put his head together with my cardiologist and came up with this final diagnosis: Chest pain and severe pressure of unknown physical origin, most likely caused by too much ongoing stress. Then, I had to hear the whole anti-stress spiel (delivered in a tone so blatantly condescending it was like listening to fingernails being raked down a chalkboard) about taking time for myself, getting enough sleep and exercise, eating healthy, and making sure I take time to recover in-between stressful responsibilities. (How, exactly, is that supposed to happen? Have you ever been a full-time working mother with two little kids, no family resources anywhere nearby, and a husband who’s schedule means he’s never around? Huh? No? Then kindly shut up about giving myself recovery time in between stressful responsibilities, you officious little man! That is, unless you're offering to take some of my responsibilities off my plate. No? Not gonna take any of that on? Didn't think so.). Anyway, it was all the usual stuff. So, I got home last night, with a little bit of valium, which they want me to take when the pain and pressure are severe, just to take the edge off. Of course, I can’t take it, if I’m going to have to drive, and there's no way I would take it at work. Caffeine? Yes.Valium? No.

Anyway, I have a follow-up appointment with my doctor next week...no doubt to discuss my stress levels some more and to hear one more person, who has NO idea what my lifestyle has really been like for the last 3 years, or the type of emotional and physical energy it requires to keep this family bumping along relatively smoothly with the schedule John works, tell me that I need to take it easy. I swear, if she smiles at me and says, “Sweetie, you’re really just not taking good enough care of yourself,” I will fly across the room and rip her head off!!! But, then I’d be guaranteed a nice, long rest in a psychiatric hospital, right? Oooooh, now there’s food for thought!

Cheers!

For you, Jodi.

2011-01-19T19:22:00.000-08:00

For My Beautiful Friend

My friend with the unforgettable, ear-to-ear grin.

My friend with the impossible-to-resist belly laugh.
My friend with the wicked sense of humor and a constant twinkle in her eye.
My friend, who worried more about how others were doing than she ever did about herself.
My friend, who battled cancer with courage and positivity and amazing strength.
My friend, whose life was unjustly cut short.
My friend, who will never be forgotten.
My friend, who I will love and miss for the rest of my life.

I love you, girl. Thanks for all the laughter over frappuccinos and V.V.'s. Thanks for the great hot tub and campfire conversations about everything from marriage to sex to politics. Thanks for the movie matinees, the skiing, the trips to Dairy Queen, and the after-work drinks and chicken quesadillas. Thanks for one of the most hilarious and memorable New Year's Eve's of my life. Thanks for being there when I wanted to give up on John and on the day I became his wife. Thank you for making me laugh so hard that my cheeks and stomach muscles were sore for days. And, thank you for showing me what true courage and grace really looks like.

My Dad's favorite saying has always been, "Who ever told you the world was fair?"
Well, you died this morning. And, that proves it. The world isn't fair.

I can't believe you're gone.

Love,
Beth

It takes a village (or, in this case, one nurse, one secretary, one frazzled Mommy, and about 6 strangers in a waiting room)...

2011-01-10T20:34:00.000-08:00

You know how, sometimes, when you know that a challenging day is coming, you're able to sort of line your ducks up in a row to make it easier??? Then, everything goes horribly wrong...

Today was that day.

OK, it wasn't horrible, actually. And, looking back on it, now, several hours after all of the chaos, it's pretty amusing. Still...once in a while, I'd like those ducks to stay lined up.

This morning, hubby had to have a colonoscopy. Having been through this before, we knew that he would need me to be there to pick him up and to take care of his poor, sorry, miserable, drugged-up self for the rest of the day. So, I arranged to stay home from work, we timed everything so that we could drop the boys off at school in the morning, and then I'd be able to drive him to and from his appointment and take care of him all afternoon in a peaceful house.

Then, it snowed. Quite a bit for our little part of the world, although anyone from a state that REALLY gets snow (like Minnesota, for example) would turn their noses up at us and laugh at our wimpiness. Anyway, given the road conditions, the district decided to start school 1 1/2 hours later than normal. Sooooo, with no last-second childcare options at our fingertips....at 8 o'clock, I loaded the boys up with lots of toys, a Leap Pad, some paper and pens, snacks, etc., and took them along to drop Daddy off for his procedure. They assured us that he would be ready to be picked up at 10:00am, sharp. Since the boys' school wouldn't be starting until 11:00am, it seemed like everything would work out just fine. I'd take the boys to McDonalds to play in the tubes and burn some energy, while I enjoyed a cup of crummy coffee and an hour or so of relative peace. Then, we'd swing back by to pick up the hubster, I'd tuck him in at home, and I'd be able to easily get the kids to school by 11:00. Sounds great in theory, doesn't it?

Everything went smoothly until pick-up time. We showed up just before 10:00. Not ready yet. The boys played with their toys as time ticked on. They began to get restless. I appeased them with snacks. They began to get louder and slightly obnoxious. I appeased them by having them make "Get Well" cards for Daddy. Foster made a paper airplane and accidentally hit an old lady in the leg with it. (She was not amused.) I was getting slightly desperate. Then, the nurse came to get me.

"There really isn't room back there for the kids."

"Um. Well, I had to bring them, since it's a late start snow day. I didn't have any choice."

"Well, there isn't room." Then, she just stood there, looking at me, as if I could somehow pull a brilliant solution to this little dilemma out of thin air.

That's when the delightful secretary (who must be a fellow mom) piped in with, "They can stay in the waiting room. I'll keep an eye on them. They can just play with their toys."

With a grateful smile, and trying not to make eye contact with the old lady who had been hit by Foster's paper airplane, I went back to see the hubby. There he was, poor fella, all drugged up and goofy. The nurse assured me that the doctor would be "right with us", and then I'd be able to take him home. I told her the little guys were out in the waiting room, and that they were due at school in 20 minutes.

"Oh, don't worry. I just saw the doctor. He'll be right in. Won't be more than a minute or two."

Yeah, right. Note to self: Anytime a nurse says the doctor will be "right in", that's code for "I have no idea when the doctor will actually make an appearance, but I'm hoping, for both of our sakes, that it will be in just a few minutes."

The minutes ticked by. I didn't dare leave, because the doctor might come "right in", but I was picturing the havoc that my boys were potentially wreaking in the waiting room and it was seriously stressing me out. Finally, the nurse (NOT the doctor) stuck her head back in.

"Sorry, the doctor has been delayed, but he'll just be a couple more minutes. I checked on the boys, and they're doing just fine out there." Big smile. Which kind've made me want to smack her a little bit. Is that wrong? It really wasn't HER I was irritated with. It was the situation. The stress. Her cheery attitude in the face of my frustration. By now, I knew it would take a miracle to get the kids to school on time.

A few more minutes passed. This time, when she stuck her head in, I told her I had to duck out to see the boys for myself.

"Okey dokey. But, come right back. The doctor will be here any minute."

Here's what I saw:

Foster was standing on the arms of his chair, apparently trying to climb the wall like Spiderman. Spencer was sitting on the floor, drawing a picture, with his rubber rain boot pressed RIGHT up against the electric heater. I could smell the melting rubber.The old lady had vanished, the secretary was on the phone, and there was only one other person in the waiting room. He appeared to be half asleep and was sitting as far away from my boys as possible.

After getting Foster down from the wall and moving Spence away from the heater, I pleaded with the secretary: "Are you sure the boys can't come back there with me?"

"Oh, no, no, no, it'll be all right. I promise. Just go on back. I'm sure the doctor will be right there."

So, back I went. I gave up on worrying and decided to trust that the secretary knew what she was talking about. I figured the sprinkler system would kick in, if either boy set themselves on fire with the electric heater. I figured they'd come and get me, if there was a real emergency. And, I figured that they must have dealt with similar situations before, so they could probably deal with this one...

Fifteen or so minutes later, after finally talking with the doctor, helping poor groggy hubby back into his clothes, and trying not to laugh too loudly when we all heard the voice of an obviously sedated (but not yet sedate), older man yelling at the top of his lungs, "You are NOT putting that in my ass!!!" (a statement the giggling nurses, trying hard to be professional, insisted they had never heard before), I was heading back out to the waiting room.

This time, the view was quite different. This time, my little boys were the center of attention of at least 6 lovely adults, of all ages, who were now waiting in the waiting room. Spence was telling them all about his best buddy, Milo, and showing them the folders he had decorated with the markers the secretary had given him. Foster was showing the apparently captivated older lady next to him his Leap Pad. Everyone was smiling and laughing and surrounding my little guys with warmth and humor and caring. It was wonderful. When I came out, they all greeted me with huge smiles and exclaimed over my "adorable", "intelligent" boys. I thanked them all profusely and left the waiting room feeling warm all over and slightly choked up by the generosity of this group of strangers. A group of people who saw a need and jumped right in, just to make life a little easier for one frazzled Mom and two little boys.

Sometimes, it really does take a village. Or, a waiting room full of caring strangers.

Cheers!

Just what you need, right when you need it.

2011-01-07T21:09:00.000-08:00

So, it's been a rough time for my little family over the last couple of weeks. Job stress and uncertainty for both of us. The car breaking down. The sky light in our bedroom cracking. Cosmo, our beloved, hairy, smelly, loyal, sweet little dog, dying on Christmas morning, after a brief, violent, sudden illness. New Year's Eve consisting of watching "The Guardians" in our pajamas with the boys and then falling asleep right before midnight, only to be woken up by the thunderous fireworks being set off by our neighbors. (Fireworks that then continued until 2am, keeping us all awake and resulting in crankiness all around. Sigh.) And, now, we find out that hubby's work is changing his day off in February. What does this mean for us? We have to find (and pay for) another day of daycare for Fos. The hits just keep on coming!

Anyway...it's been tough.

BUT...once in a while, when things are getting you down, somebody says or does something that is EXACTLY what you need, at the exact moment you need it, to give you a new perspective, remind you of how lucky you are, or make you feel loved and appreciated and supported and strong enough to tackle whatever obstacles life throws at you.

This was mine.

A few minutes ago, my little guy came in to say goodnight to me...

"Hey, Mom."

"Hey, Fos."

"I love you."

"Love you too, sweetie."

"I came in to say goodnight. Can I get up in your lap?"

"No, sweetie...Daddy's waiting to sing you songs."

"I know that, Mommy. But I really, really, really love your lap. Face it, Mommy -- Your lap is the best."

Needless to say...he ended up in my lap.

Lucky, lucky me.

Cheers!

For Cosmo, Who Will Forever Be Missed

2010-12-25T12:41:00.000-08:00

For Cosmo, who passed away at 11:35, Christmas morning.

We love you so much. Our hearts are breaking that you left us so suddenly and unexpectedly today.

You brought so much happiness and silliness and unconditional love (along with snoring and flatulence and copious quanities of hair) into our lives over the last 14 years.

I remember bringing you home from the Humane Society in 1997 -- Just a fat, fuzzy, black ball of love. My constant companion. My parents' first "grandchild."

I remember telling myself that you would NEVER sleep on the bed with me. Then, I caught that really bad flu in Grad. School, and you looked so fluffy and cute and warm, staring up at me with your big, brown eyes. I scooped you up onto the bed, and that was that. Until you got too old to jump up that high, you were my sleeping buddy from that moment forward.

I remember how you used to put yourself between me and John, when we first started dating. Just letting him know that I belonged to you, and that he was the interloper.

What a frisbee dog you were! The hours we spent playing frisbee were some of the happiest, most carefree hours of my life.

You were there for so many important events in my life. Graduate school. Meeting John. My first counseling job. The time we got lost on the mountain in Enumclaw. (I was so scared, lost in the dark. But, you were with me, and that made it bearable.) Getting married. I'll never forget how concerned I was that Dad make sure to let you out to poop before the ceremony. And, what was the first thing Dad said to me, just before he walked me down the aisle? "Cosmo pooped." That will forever be a cherished memory from one of the most important days of my life. You were there in our little duplex, watching me learn how to work a lawnmower. You were there when we bought our house. You grudgingly accepted Lucy as a canine companion. And then, you grew to love her. You were there when each little boy joined our family. And, after a while, you grew to love them, too. Especially their leftover crusts and crumbs.

I'm not going to remember you as you were this awful Christmas Day. I'm going to remember you the way you were on Thanksgiving. The way you pranced out into the snow, looking like a puppy again. Laughing your doggy laugh and munching on snow. And, I'm going to remember you, always, as my friend and companion for all of these years. Sharing so much of my life with me. Always loving me and accepting me, even with all of my faults.

The boys drew pictures of you, today. Foster's had hearts all over it, and Spencer drew spiky hair everywhere. I'm so glad they got to know you.

Our family won't be the same without you, Cos. You were a good boy. A good, good boy.

We love you.

Sometimes you just need your Mom and Dad.

2010-12-18T14:55:00.000-08:00

I have learned, over the years, that no matter how competent and in control and grown up you may think you are...sometimes, you just need your Mom and Dad. Even at the ripe old age of 42. Nothing else will do.

So, I have spontaneously decided to pack up the boys and a bunch of their toys to make the long, long drive over the mountains to see my folks. (Hoping, hoping, hoping the pass will be clear, and I won't have to go out in a blizzard to put chains on the tires, like the last time I made this trek in the winter. Yeah, the 8 hour trip that turned into 12 hours. The very same trip in which my boys ended up peeing in the car, because we were stuck in the mountains for so long, and I burst into tears of relief the second I arrived in our driveway at home. Wait a minute...Why am I dong this, again?) Well, hubby has to work his crazy hours all week, anyway, so it's not like we'd be spending any time with him until Christmas Day. I'd just be doing the usual single Mom thing all week long. So, I called Dad, yesterday, to ask if he and Mom would like a last-minute, pre-Christmas visit from me and the little guys.

The minute he said "Hello", I felt like I was about 10 years old again. "Hi, Dad." Hearing the tremor in my voice, he simply asked, "How are you, honey?"

This, of course, turned the tremor into something that probably sounded a little like a cross between sniffling and whimpering, as I struggled to keep it together.

What I wanted to cry out was, "Dad, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE can I come home and just be a kid for a little while again, and you and Mom can take over? I'm so exhausted and empty and discouraged, and I just need somebody else to take the reins for a little while, so I can rest."

Instead, I said, "I'm OK, Dad. I'd just really like to come home for a few days. Would that be OK? We could make it a surprise for Mom. She'll be so excited."

Thus, the plan was set.

I'm so excited. I'm going home. And, for just a few days, there will be somebody taking care of me, for a change. I won't have to do all the cooking. I'll be able to take a nap or two, and maybe even take a bath... I'll take long walks and play in the snow with the boys and my Dad, while my Mom is at home making something warm and yummy for us all to have when we get back. I'll spend at least one full day in my pajamas, letting the boys watch all the cartoon channels we don't have at our place, drinking spiked coffee, and playing cards with my Mom. After the kids are in bed, I'll relax by the fireplace, just talking and laughing with my folks... I'll get filled up again. With love. With optimism. With my usual zest for life.

I can't wait.

If only I could get there without having to drive...

Cheers!

Thank goodness for Scooby Doo and PB&J!!!

2010-12-16T17:30:00.000-08:00

You know how sometimes, when an enormous weight has finally been lifted off of your shoulders, it leaves you completely depleted? Or, how about the times when you've had such a stressful day (or week, or year) that you look at the sink that's packed full of dishes and the overflowing laundry and just walk away from it all, simply too exhausted to deal with it? Or those times when you are SO dog tired just from juggling work and motherhood and marriage and doctor's appointments and dentist appointments and bills, etc., etc...that you can barely move? The times when you drag yourself through the door, kids in tow, and know that you somehow have to summon the energy to at least feed your hungry children, even if you can't even summon the energy to take off your own shoes? (Mine are still on, by the way.)

That's when I say, "Thank goodness for Scooby Doo and PB&J!!! A weary Mom's best friends!"

So now, I kick off my boots, pour a glass of red, and try to remain semi-functional until the boys have had their baths, read their stories, sung their songs, and are headed off to Dreamland.

Cheers!

Santa Claus is Coming to Town...

2010-12-15T20:16:00.000-08:00

Conversation with Foster in the bathtub:

"Omigosh, Mom. You are NEVER going to believe this!"

"What, honey?"

"I found out that some of the kids in my class don't think Santa Claus is real! Can you BELIEVE that?!!!" (This said in a tone of such incredulity, that it was all I could do not to bust out laughing.)

"Really? Well, what did they say?"

"It's SO silly, Mommy!"

So, tell me."

"They think the Moms and Dads are getting all the presents! Bwaaa haaa haaaaa!!!"

"Really?"

"Yeah. Giggle, giggle, chuckle. There's no way that could ever happen! How could Moms and Dads get all the presents under the tree by Christmas? They don't have Santa magic! Giggle, giggle."

Leaving me to wonder....Is my little guy going to need therapy for this some day?

Still, I'm happy the magic is alive and well for my boys. Harsh, cold reality is just around the corner, so let's keep as much magic and light and laughter around as as we can, right? Happy holidays.

Cheers!

You're a mean one, Grinchy - Grinch!

2010-12-11T18:23:00.000-08:00

I just came from the grocery store. I could probably just write that one sentence, and that would be enough. I mean, anyone who has set foot in any sort of store since Thanksgiving knows the significance of those 7 words. "I just came from the grocery store." Translation: "Someone please pour me a huge glass of wine, right friggin' now!"

Why? Because the stores are packed full of Grinches. They may not be green, but they're surly, with mouths pinched tightly closed, brows drawn together into deep scowls, and lips drawn up into nasty sneers. They come in all ages, shapes, and sizes, but the expressions are always the same. And, they move lightning-fast, these Grinches, closing in on their desired purchases with a hunter's instinct. Using their baskets and shopping carts as weapons, knocking aside small children, exhausted Moms, and other Grinches in their effort to beat the competition.

As joyful holiday tunes fill the air, these awful people run over toes, snarl at harried cashiers, snatch objects right out of the fingers of innocent people who came into the store happily whistling along to the music, and now just wish they could go back in time and stay home, even if it means that they have to live without bread and milk until 2011. Today, I observed a 50-ish woman, dressed head-to-toe in Christmas wear, from her red and green sweater with the snowman on the front, to the snowflakes dangling from her earlobes (how jolly!) speed up, almost to a jog, so that she could cut right in front of a little old couple who were making their way into the checkout line with about 3 items in their basket. She swooped in ahead of them to begin unloading her own, overflowing shopping cart. The young, exhausted-looking cashier looked up at her and said, "Hello, how are you?" The Grinch-Woman didn't even acknowledge her. This woman, like so many other holiday shoppers, in their annual quest to fill their houses with goodies and to lavish their loved ones with gifts, demonstrate the ultimate in selfishness, egocentricity, and just plain Grinchy-ness. Ahhh, the irony...

I hope they accidentally sit down on the spiky end of a holly bush.

HO HO HO!!!

The great Christmas card mystery.

2010-12-08T18:23:00.000-08:00

Last year, I only got half-way (or maybe one third of the way) through my Christmas card list. I tried, I really did. But, life was extra crazy last year, what with the do-it-yourself kitchen remodel project that just wouldn't end, the water damaged floor, and other insanity, loaded right on top of the general chaos that comes with living in my household. Anyway, I never did get those cards out.

This year, I vowed things would be different. So, I have actually mailed at least 90% of my cards. (Cue the applause, please.) Yes, I'm feeling pretty good about it. I couldn't find a single decent picture of all four of us together to actually put on the card, but I managed to get some cute individual photos on there, order copies, pick them up, write a yearly update letter, and send them out. I put my husband in charge of his side of the family, this year, so there's a good chance that they may never get their cards, but that's on his shoulders this time around...I'm letting go of a few things.

So, now that they're out, I just get to eagerly anticipate all of the Christmas cards that will be coming our way. I love seeing the photos of distant family, friends and their kids. I love reading the update letters and hearing all about their adventures. All of the cards get hung up around the doorway. It's great. Festive and fun. I look forward to it every year.

Then along came the mystery card.

It was addressed to our family, from a town nearby. It has a cute picture of some really adorable kids. The problem? We have NO idea who it's from. We don't recognize the last name. We don't recognize the names of the kids. We don't recognize the address. We don't recognize the picture. Absolutely no idea. I asked the boys to look at the pictures, in case it was from somebody in one of their classes. Nope. I asked hubby to check at work to see if it came from someone there. Nothing. I asked some of my friends if they knew who it was from. Nada.

So, I'm hanging it up on the doorway with the rest of the cards. Why not? The kids are really cute, afterall.

Feliz Navidad!

A few burning questions about husbands, kids, life, and such...

2010-12-02T20:20:00.000-08:00

1. Why would my husband rather spend all day in the dark than open the blinds to let in a little light? Is it a "Man Cave" thing? Does he not notice that it's dark in the house? How can he just happily go about his business, knowing that natural light is waiting right outside the windows, just a few feet from where he's sitting/standing/eating/watching TV/playing video games/drinking coffee?

2. Where's Robin Hood, when you really need him, huh? I mean, look at the state of our country (if you can do so without bursting into tears or spontaneously combusting). What we really need is a hero to come riding in on his horse, take some of that money all the super-rich are hoarding (and continuing to somehow earn and earn and earn, even while the rest of us hard-working folks are victims of this endless recession) and distribute it a little more equally to the people who need it the most. And, he can do it all while being charming, witty, intelligent, and still finding a little time to make merry. Sounds like a good idea, doesn't it? Oh, wait. Maybe President Obama is Robin Hood...Perhaps he just needs a bow and a quiver of arrows. Or a horse. Or a few less horse's asses in Congress.

3. Why do boys, of all ages, think farting is so funny? I mean, they seem to actually come out of the womb thinking flatulence is hilarious. It's gas coming out of your rear end. And, sometimes it stinks. Call me crazy, but I just don't get it.

4. Why do husbands say things like, "I made plans for us, honey. Can you figure out somebody to take care of the kids?", and then wonder why their wives want to smack them upside the head instead of leaping for joy at their romantic gesture? I hate to break it to you, guys, but we don't exactly feel swept off our feet, when we still have to arrange for childcare. Walk over to the phone list and call the babysitter yourselves! Now, THAT would be a romantic gesture! THAT would pretty much guarantee that you'd be getting some extra lovin', if you know what I mean. Extra. Special. Lovin'.

5. Why do so many smokers think that throwing their cigarette butts onto the sidewalk (or out the window of their car, or in the park, or next to some little kids' playground) isn't actually littering? I know, I've ranted about this particular topic, before. But, it's not like it's getting any better, right? A cigarette butt just hit the windshield of my car this afternoon, after being tossed out the window of the car in front of me. Anyway, would these inconsiderate folks feel the same way if I dumped, say, all of my used kleenex in their front yard? "Oh, relax. It's not really litter. I just used it to clean boogers out of my nose. Boogers are biodegradable, right? Surely you don't mind me throwing these in your front yard, since you just dropped your cigarette butts all over the public sidewalk where my kids ride their bikes. Right? I mean, it's a free country, right?"

6. Since religious groups are so involved in making policy and promoting home-grown, hand-picked politicians these days, in spite of the founding father's wise regulations regarding separation of church and state, shouldn't they be paying taxes, just like all the other businesses? And, if you think about it, if churches paid taxes, wouldn't that pretty much eliminate the deficit right there? Hmmmmm....Oh, and I can't claim any sort of personal brilliance for this sentiment, because I've seen it on bumper stickers and magnets. But, think about it. We all know, regardless of our personal religious beliefs, that religion, in all of its forms, is big business. Think how much really productive money could be generated, if they just bucked up and paid taxes? Talk about really supporting your neighbors, eh?

7. How come the minute you feel like you're finally getting ahead of your bills, your car breaks down, or your roof springs a leak?

8. What did I ever do to deserve such wonderful parents, amazing kids, a patient partner who continues to love me, steadfastedly, through good times and bad, supportive friends, a career I feel passionate about, an inquisitive mind, and a life that has been rich in laughter and love and adventure? I am so lucky!

Cheers!

Man, I really hope karma is real!

2010-11-22T16:52:00.000-08:00

Spoiler alert: This is just going to be a total rant about the jerks of the world. That's it. Nothing to do with being a working Mom, or the perils of raising two little boys, or the endless challenges of marriage and life and such....Nope. None of that. Just a full-on vent about a--holes. Why? I'll tell you why. Because sometimes you just. can't. take it. anymore.
When people say, "Don't worry. That guy is a total jerk, but Karma's a bitch. Just you wait. He'll get his due someday! You reap what you sow." -- Is that really true? Or, could it be that we just say that to ourselves, so we'll feel better about watching so many butt-heads walking all over other people and then getting rewarded for it?

Does the guy who sees you (I'm talking, actual eye contact here) waiting for a spot in an icy parking lot, with your signal flashing and your little boys in the back, and then chooses to cut in front of you and whip his truck into the spot really get what's coming to him? Please say yes! C'mon, just say it to make me feel better. Does he get a flat tire on the way home? Does a rock hit his windshield and shatter it into a million pieces?

How about the people who let their yappy dogs outside at 6am every Saturday and Sunday morning and then let them bark and bark and bark, waking up the whole neighbrhood and not caring about how many exhausted, hardworking people are being woken up by their obnoxious pack of hounds? Where is the karmic justice there? Do they start growing thick, black hair in places hair shouldn't grow, perhaps?

Or, how about the people who get everyone else to do all the hard work, and then spend all the free time that creates kissing up to the bigshots, so that they're out in front for promotions and recognition, even though they seldom actually do any work? Do they wind up with scabies or chronic, painful gas or something like that, just to bring balance back to the universe?

And, what about the "mean girls" who grow up to be "mean women"? Do they gain a hundred pounds and find themselves married to lazy, good-for-nothing partners, who make them feel as bad about themselves as their own victims have felt after being tormented and bullied by them?

What about the people we see on the news (or sometimes in our own neighborhoods) committing fraud? The ones who say they're too disabled to work and then get the government to fund their house projects or luxurious vacations? Are they stricken with intense insomnia, because they are racked with guilt during their trips all over the world, knowing that it's being funded by money that could be offered to someone who is, say, stricken with cancer or genuinely too disabled to work?

SOMEBODY TELL ME KARMA IS REAL!!! Of course, if it is, I'm about to get some kind of smack-down from the universe for writing this long, negative rant. Oops...

Cheers!

The Great Stuffed Animal Debacle

2010-11-19T18:56:00.000-08:00

Around here, when Christmas is coming, that means it's time to purge old toys, before new ones arrive from Santa. Why? Partly because our house contains four humans and two dogs packed into 1150 square feet with no storage. There are only so many toys we can handle. But mostly because I don't want my kids overloaded with toys, and I want them to learn empathy and compassion by donating toys that aren't used so much anymore to kids who might not have any. So, last weekend was "purge time". Honestly, much of the purging is done by me, alone, while the kids are distracted. There's the donate pile, the consignment pile, and the trash pile, and lots of toys that my boys have forgotten all about simply disappear into one of those piles without them ever knowing. But, I also want Spencer and Foster to be an active part of the process, so they can wrap their brains around this whole purging idea. So, last Saturday, I told the boys to get all of their stuffed animals (I'm thinking there are at least 40 of them) and take them into the living room, so they could figure out which ones they were going to donate and which they would keep. All seemed to be going well, as they gathered an entire zoo's worth of animals and took them into the living room.

That's when the sobbing began...

I was in their room, purging away, when I heard the most heartbreaking crying coming from the living room. Thinking that one of the boys had impaled his brother with some sharp object, I dashed down the hallway. What did I find? Stuffed animals all over the place, Foster sitting against the couch with a blank look on his face, and Spencer lying, facedown, on the carpet, sobbing his heart out.

"Spencer, what happened? What's wrong?!!!" I asked, rolling him over to check for bleeding.

He looked up at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen, tears streaming down his face, chest hitching with sobs, and woefully cried, "I don't want to give ANY of my stuffed animals awaaaaaaayyyyyyy........."

It was all I could do not to laugh. Such drama! Nonetheless, my oldest son was sincerely devastated at the idea of having to give away any of his stuffed animals. So, I hugged him, grabbed him a kleenex, and decided to negotiate.

"OK, honey, just relax. I'm not asking you to give away your favorites, or anything. Let's just give away some of the ones you never play with anymore, because there are kids who don't have any stuffed animals, and they would really appreciate having an animal to love and to play with, OK? So, let's have a look here. What about this big, yellow bunny rabbit? You guys never play with this one."

"Mommy, how can you even say that????" More sobbing. "That's the very first easter bunny (sob) Grandma ever gave me!!!" (sob, sob, sniff, sob)

"OK. Well, how about this duck flower thingie? You seriously NEVER play with the duck flower thingie, right?" (It's some sort of flower with a duck face in the middle. Don't ask.)

At this point, Foster piped in with, "I'd be OK with getting rid of the duck flower." Sweet boy...

Then, Spencer, in a tone of voice which insinuated that I was some sort of nazi terrorist said, "But he'll be lonely! He won't have a friend to be with!"

Not to be outdone, I replied: "Well, then. Let's pick a friend for him, so they can be together."

So, Spencer spent what seemed like about 20 minutes poking through his animal pile, and finally came up with a companion toy for the duck flower.

"All righty then. Let's donate the duck flower and his friend."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! His friend is Bubba. You can't donate Bubba. I LOVE BUBBAAAAAAAAA!!!!!" (Wailing, sobbing, sniffling, crying.)

What followed was a total fiasco of bargaining, negotatiating ("Mommy, you let me keep Tu Tu the alligator, and I'll give you two army guys and a bouncy ball, OK?"), whining, pleading, the rendering of the historical background of every single stuffed animal in the house, and endless sobbing. By the time I gave up, there were exactly three stuffed animals in the donate pile. A tiger puppet, which both boys agreed to give up, and two stuffed animals that, technically, belonged to me. The rest went back onto the boys beds.

It must have been about midnight, when I heard muffled sobs coming from the bedroom. Of course, I did what any self-respecting exhausted mother should do -- I woke up the hubby and told him it was his turn to see what was wrong. I heard murmuring and sobbing, and then John came back in the room.

"Beth, did you give away Nick?"

"Who's Nick?"

"I don't know. Some wolf toy that Mom and Dad gave you after your surgery."

"His name is Nick?"

"Yeah. Apparently Spencer named him, and he begged me not to give him away. He's really upset."

"Of course he is." Sigh. "Whatever. Tell him we'll get Nick out of the box tomorrow, OK?"

"OK. And, there's some tiger puppet that got donated too. Do you know anything about that?"

"Aaaargh!!!" (Yes, something that sounded JUST like that actually came out of my mouth.)

"I GIVE UP! Tell him we'll get all the animals out of the box, tomorrow."

Thus ended, what shall forever be burned into my brain as "The Great Stuffed Animal Debacle."

Until next year. Sigh.

Happy Holidays!!!

When you wish upon a star...

2010-10-16T13:52:00.000-07:00

Now that song is stuck in your head, isn't it? heh, heh...

Last night, as per usual with my husband's insane work schedule, he wasn't going to arrive home until after the boys were already in bed. So, he called to say "goodnight" to the boys. Spence did his usual "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, see ya in the morning" routine and tossed the phone to Foster. I went into the kitchen to start another endless cycle of cleaning...

A few minutes went by, and Fos still hadn't shown up with the phone. So, I went back to our bedroom to see what was taking so long. It was FREEZING in there and no sign of Foster. I came around the corner and saw the door to the back deck wide open, cold October air blowing in, and I heard Foster's voice.

"Daddy, it's the biggest star EVER! I'm pretty sure it's Jupiter. Yeah. Jupiter. Uh-huh. I'm serious, Dad. Look at it. Can you see it? See it?"

I peeked around the corner, and there's my youngest son, standing in his bare feet, staring up at the sky, with the phone held way out in front of him, pointed at the stars.

"Do you see it, Daddy?"

That's when I piped in. "Sweetie, Daddy can't see through the phone, so why don't you just tell him about it."

"Oh, hi Mom. OK. Hey, Daddy, I made a secret wish on the star. D'you want me to do a wish for you too? You do? OK, whisper your secret wish to me, and I'll do it for you."

I was still standing there, shivering. So, Fos looks up at me and, in an extremely polite, sweet voice says, "Um, Mommy? Can you please give us some privacy and shut the door? This is Daddy's secret wish, so nobody's allowed to hear it but me, 'cuz I'm doing it for him."

How cute is that? Seriously. Does it get any cuter?

Cheers!

How is it possible to feel so lonely, when you're never, ever, EVER actually alone?

2010-10-14T06:19:00.000-07:00

I think that motherhood can be a wonderful "club." Especially when the kids aren't mobile yet, and you can cart them easily to "playdates" that are really nothing more than an excuse for the moms with babies to get together to drink coffee (or wine). And, when the kids are small enough that they aren't in school yet, so there are more opportunities to get together with other moms to share stories and to laugh and to get support from others who are going through it (and to have more wine)...

I also think that motherhood can be lonely. Incredibly lonely. You wouldn't think it would be possible, when most mothers can't even pee or take a shower by themselves, without one kid or the other barging in with a need or a want or a "Mommmmmmmyyyyyyyyy........Foster broke my invention!" or "Mommmmmyyyyyyyy....Spencer hit me in the neck!"

I mean, if your house is anything like my house, you're never alone for a minute. You leap out of bed, heart pounding every morning, go through the frenzied, frantic, chaotic morning routine that somehow ends up with your kids in their respective schools/daycares and you at work, just in the nick of time. You work all day, then you reverse the situation and, with no time to stand around shooting the breeze with your co-workers, you race out of there to go through the frenzied, frantic,chaotic afternoon routine that somehow ends up with all of you back home, more or less in one piece. You take care of emptying backpacks, reading agendas and notes from the school, listening to the messages on your answering machine, advancing the endless laundry to the next cycle, and then try to squeeze in a few minutes of "fun" time with your kids, before it's time to make dinner. Then it's bath time, story time, songs, and, finally, finally, your kids are in bed, leaving you feeling guilty about being relieved that your children are now unconscious and, therefore, not demanding anything from you. Then, it's go back out to the kitchen to make the lunches for the next day, to set the coffee maker so you'll have that invaluable morning infusion of caffeine, clean up the kitchen, throw enough toys in their respective baskets to clear a path for walking, pet each of your poor, neglected dogs on the head, at least once, just to relieve the guilt you feel for not taking them for a walk AGAIN, push the unpaid bills to the side of the counter, and then collapse. You're alone. The house is quiet. But, by then, you're too exhausted to appreciate this moment of silence and calm, and, as the case usually is in my house, that's right when hubby finally arrives home from work, all full of energy, wanting to talk or watch T.V. or something...After all, the work is already all done. The kids are asleep. He's got nothing to do but talk or watch T.V. or something... And, all you want to do is escape into sleep, because you know you have to start all over again in just a few short hours, and you can't even imagine how you're going to get through another day.

So, you're never really alone. And, yet, there's loneliness. There's the feeling that you're in this all by yourself. That nobody else is feeling as overwhelmed or frustrated or exhausted as you are. That all those women who have partners who are home for dinner every night and home all weekend to help with the parenting, or who have mothers or mothers-in-law who live in town and pop over to take over with the kids once a week or bring over dinner (just because), or who have neighbors with kids the same age and offer reciprocal babysitting services, so you can actually go out on dates with your husband (imagine that!) or get your grocery shopping done, or just have a half-an-hour to yourself, or go to the gym... just don't get it. And, you want to say "Please, just live my life for a week. Just for a week. Or maybe 48 hours. Then, you'll understand, and I won't feel so alone, anymore."

But, you don't say it out loud. You deal with it. You go on. You tell yourself that there are other moms who have it much, much worse than you, and you count your blessings. And, you try as hard as you can not to feel envious of the moms who have it much, much easier than you (especially if they are friends you love and miss), because envy is a nasty, horrible, destructive feeling that doesn't do anybody any good and just leaves you feeling ungrateful and whiny and unappreciative of the good things you have in your life. So, you search for joy, and you remind yourself that life is fleeting, and you try to hang on to those moments of bliss with all of your might. And, you try to live your life as an upbeat and optimistic person (with only the occasional full-on emotional meltdown in the grocery aisle at Fred Meyer), because the alternative is just too depressing.

And, once-in-a-while, you send your thoughts out into the blogosphere at 4:30 in the morning, because you just have to get it out, and because you're hoping that someone out there will read your words and will understand. Because then you're not really alone, afterall. Right?

School Bus Trauma #2

2010-10-09T15:13:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember the original school bus trauma from about this time, last year. Thinking about it still makes me shudder. Well, if you can believe it, school bus trauma #2 beats that one, by a mile.

You know, you figure that when your second child heads off to kindergarten, things should go more smoothly than the first time around, when you were just a rookie, right?

Not this time.

Yesterday, I did my usual frantic afternoon routine, which consists of me flying out of my office, papers scattering everywhere, my desk a disaster, countless things left unfinished, the very second the clock reaches 3:30, so that I can make the wild trip all the way across town, cutting in and out of traffic, heart pounding, biting my nails at every red light, cursing the slow drivers in front of me, screeching to a halt at the bus stop, and leaping out of the car to stand by the curb, mere moments before the bus arrives with my little darlings aboard.

So, there I am, all excited to see my little guys. Off jumps Spencer. Big smile. Hugs. Kisses. I straighten up from all the loving, watching the other kids getting off the bus, eagerly anticipating seeing Foster's impish grin (and slightly terrified at what he may have done at school, since there's usually some sort of story involving kicking or pushing a classmate, sticking his tongue out at little girls, or saying "You're not the boss of me!" to the teacher or librarian or paraeducator, or ... wait for it ... the principal. Sigh). All the kids jump off, and I'm still standing there, staring stupidly at the bus driver.

"Are we missing one?" he says, jovially, as if it's the most casual question in the world to ask.

"Um, yeah. Foster. Little guy. Superman backpack."

The driver gets on the radio and makes an announcement: "Foster, please come to the front of the bus!"

Nothing.

Spencer jumps back on the bus and says, "I'll get him, Mom!" I can see him going all the way to the back of the bus. And coming back. Alone.

"Where is he?" I ask the bus driver in a slightly shaky voice, attempting to remain calm.

"I'll call transportation and see what's going on."

He radios transportation, and I hear him talking to the dispatcher, announcing that we have a missing kindergartner. He gets off the radio and hands me a phone number.

"Go home and call this number. That's dispatch. They're radioing all the buses to see if Foster is on board. Don't worry, we'll find him."

Don't worry? Don't friggin' worry?!!! Are you KIDDING me? Have you not heard about kids disappearing? Have you not heard about the little 2nd grader who was last seen at his science fair and then never came home from school? Have you not heard about the local student whose body was just found floating in the bay? DON'T WORRY???!!!

I grabbed Spencer's hand and half-dragged him the 3 blocks home, drilling him for information the whole time.

"Was Fos in line with you? Did he get sent to the office? Did you see him go somewhere with somebody? Did he get off the bus at the wrong stop? He's your little brother! What happened to him?"

Poor Spence, completely shaken by my obvious panic, just kept saying, "It's not my fault, Mommy. I'm not in charge of him. I don't know where he went. I was with my friends. I don't know."

I called transportation dispatch, immediately, and the lady told me they were still looking into it. She put me on hold. I waited all of 3 minutes then hung up and called back. This time, I got a supervisor.

"My son is 5 years old. He's missing. He didn't get on the bus. Where is he?"

"We're looking for him, ma'am. Don't worry. Kids get on the wrong bus all the time. We'll find him and call you back."

There it was again. "Don't worry." As I envision my little boy either being driven away to Canada by some stranger who dangled candy or a kitten or a brightly wrapped present in front of him OR wandering lost and scared somewhere after getting off at the wrong bus stop OR being flattened by a speeding car as he attempts to find his way home...

Then the phone rang.

"We found him! He's on a bus going south around the lake. We'll drop him at his elementary school in about 45 minutes."

Then the tears started. Up until then, I had somehow been holding it together. Once I knew where he was, I completely lost it. Huddled on the kitchen floor with my arms wrapped around my legs, shaking and sobbing. My little boy was safe. Not kidnapped. Not lost. Not flattened by a speeding car. Safe.

I cried the entire 45 minutes.
I cried when I saw the school bus turning in to the parking lot.
I cried the second I saw him.
I'm crying right now, just writing about it.

Then I heard the story of how his teacher had told him that he'd be riding a different bus home, because transportation had changed buses for the afternoon pick-up. The teacher was just doing his job. But, all my little guy heard was "Different bus home". So, when the buses pulled up, instead of following his brother, my adventurous little Fos just picked a different bus and hopped on, happy as a clam. Then, when dispatch was calling around to all of the buses to find out where he was, Foster wouldn't answer. The driver thought he looked new, so she pulled over, went back to him, and asked him his name. He wouldn't answer. She asked him what grade he was in. He wouldn't answer. She asked him what school he went to. He wouldn't answer. Why, you may ask? Well, as he told me later, "You told me not to talk to strangers, Mommy." Thank goodness I wrote his name all over his backpack. That's how the driver figured out he was the missing child.

Motherhood is going to kill me. Seriously. Kill me.

Cheers!

Remember when people's eyebrows moved up and down???

2010-09-22T13:49:00.000-07:00

I love to watch political news shows like Meet the Press and This Week with Christiane Amanpour. In fact, it's pretty much how hubby and I spend every Sunday morning. I love doing this for two reasons, really. First, I like to be informed about what's been going on around the world during the week. This is especially true, now that I've gone back to work, because I fall into an exhaustion coma after the kids are in bed every day, and I am completely unconscious by the time the 11:00 news begins. (Hell, I'm completely unconscious by 8:30 most nights. Who am I kidding with this 11:00 news stuff???) Second, I get very fired up and mad and excited about it all, and then John and I get into heated debates and discussions that remind me, for just that short, precious time, that I do have a regular brain (not just that "Mommy Brain" that we all grow after becoming mothers, so that we can keep track of the million different little details we need to manage once we have kids) and that I am capable of intelligently discussing (or at least passionately yelling about) topics and issues that are going on in our country and in our world. It's also a great reminder to John and I that we really did have lots of things to talk about before we had kids, and that we were actually pretty good at this whole conversing thing.

But, I've started to take notice of how many of the people on these shows no longer have eyebrows that move. It's actually become so distracting that I have a hard time concentrating on what they're saying. Seriously. Picture this....The extremely serious moderator talking with three extremely serious political "experts" during an extremely serious round table discussion about the war in Afghanistan. The voices are intense. The hand gestures are dramatic. Mouths are turned downward into deep, serious scowls. But nobody's eyebrows are moving! At all. Only the bottom half of their faces seem to work. It's the weirdest thing. How are you supposed to listen to the information being delivered, when you're so distracted by the strange, expressionless eyebrows and foreheads of the people who are delivering it? And, have you checked out the newscasters and the meteorologists? If you're not looking at the screen, you can tell by their voices if the story is dramatic or exciting or sad. But, take an actual look at them, and there's this weird disconnect between the bottom half of their faces and the top. It's disconcerting. Kind of creepy, actually. Like old episodes of The Twilight Zone or Outer Limits.

This Botox and plastic surgery stuff has really gotten out of hand. I mean, I expect Hollywood celebrities to eventually look like plumped-up, smoothed-out, pulled-tight, freakishly expressionless versions of themselves. That's been the norm for a while. But, our newscasters? Our political commentators? I kind've thought that they were somehow supposed to be more representative of the rest of us, you know? The regular folks with real faces that have expression lines and freckles and saggy parts in the places where saggy parts are supposed to naturally occur.

What a world we live in, eh?

Cheers!

(By the way: One of the reasons I think Christiane Amanpour is such a great interviewer and moderator? Her entire face moves when it's supposed to!)

Really? A phone call on the VERY first day of kindergarten? Cut a stressed-out Mommy a little slack, won't you?

2010-09-17T04:31:00.000-07:00

I'm officially starting to believe all those other Moms who've been saying things like, "Before you know it, your boys will be graduating high school and moving on with their lives." You know what I'm talking about, right? The ones that always seem to come right when you're trapped in line at the grocery store with two hungry, exhausted, whiny little boys, and you have to buy an 8 pack of Crayola brand washable markers, because that's the one school supply item you forgot to buy for the first day, and you haven't slept in 3 nights, and you know that you're going to be up most of the night doing that slide show for work that you haven't even been able to start during your actual work day, and you haven't made sustained eye contact with your husband or had a meaningful adult conversation in weeks, and you're thinking to yourself, "If either one of my boys says 'Moooooommmmmyyyyyyy' to me one more time right now, I am going to spontaneously combust right here in this grocery line!!!" ??? That's typically when some older woman with kind eyes and a sweet little smile turns around and says, "You should cherish these moments, dear, because they go by so fast." You look up at this well-meaning woman, and you want to rip her eyes out, because, at that very moment, the idea of your boys graduating and moving out, so you can finally get a little alone-time, sounds just peachy, thank you very much. You know those comments???

Well, they're starting to make a lot more sense.

Why?

Because my little Foster just went to his first day of kindergarten. Sigh.

The afternoon of his first day, I met Fos and Spence at the bus stop and was greeted with HUGE smiles and hugs and lots of stories about how much fun they had at school. And, dropping my little guy off that morning had really been a breeze. No tears this time around (mine, Daddy's, or Foster's). Fos was happy and excited. I felt genuinely happy and excited for him. Hubby and I dropped him off together and marveled at how much easier it was this time, versus last year, when Spence started kindergarten. In fact, I had planned on writing a joy-filled, optimistic little blog entry called "It's so much easier the second time around."

Then, the phone rang.
At 7:30pm.
It was Foster's new kindergarten teacher.
Calling us at home.
On his very. first. day.

Teacher: "Hi. I'd like to talk with you a little bit about some concerns I have about Foster."

Gulp. Heart starts pounding. Head starts spinning. On the FIRST DAY??? Seriously?!!!

Teacher: "I'm concerned that he may not be aware of where he is in time and space."

What the ???

Teacher: "When I took all the kids to lunch, I taught them what to do with their lunch boxes, and I really went through it with them. But, Foster somehow put his lunch box in the wrong bin. So, I pointed him down the hall to look in the other class bins, but he didn't come right back. I found him playing in the atrium. Then, when we went out to recess for the first time, I told all the kids to line up when the bell rang. Well, I counted heads, and one was missing. It was Foster. He had lined up with a different class. So, I'm just wondering if this is the norm for him, and I'm concerned."

I couldn't breathe for a second. It seemed like such a serious and significant statement: "I'm concerned that he may not be aware of where he is in time and space." It just kind of echoed around in my brain. Really? To me, it doesn't seem that strange that a 5-year old, especially a very adventurous and excited 5-year old like Fos., on his first day of school, would put his lunch box in the wrong bin and then take full advantage of being set free in the hallway to explore his new environment. It's not OK, and I fully understand that he has to follow the directions of his teacher and be safe. But, is it really that weird? It just doesn't strike me as being that odd that a kid might line up with the wrong class on day one of his very first recess, either.

But, I guess Fos was the only one who did these things.
Of course.

My little guy. The one who pushes buttons and tests the boundaries of every authority figure in his life. The one who is fascinated with everything and easily distracted by the sights, sounds, and smells of life going on around him. The one who has always headed fearlessly out to explore his world, with no need to hold hands or cling to parental legs. The one with the sparkling blue eyes and amazing smile, who gives the most heartfelt hugs in the world, and who ends every day by saying, "Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite. I love you more than you love me. Yes, possible!" My funny, creative, stubborn, affectionate, and totally unique little guy.

I'm glad his teacher wants to keep the lines of communication open. Really, I am. When I met him, I instantly thought that he and Foster would connect really well together. He seems to have a great sense of fun and passion for teaching. He seems genuinely interested in getting to know "his" kids. Hubby and I will, of course, back him up when he feels that more boundaries or discipline are required. And, I am a firm believer that schools and parents have to work as a respectful team to help kids succeed.

But, did he have to call on the very first day? Couldn't he have waited to see how the first couple of days played out, just to get a really good feel for how Fos is adjusting to kindergarten life, before questioning his mental capabilities and awareness? Did he not know how such a phone call might affect loving parents?

Seriously. I lay awake all night after that call, tossing and turning, (as hubby snored away) wondering if there could be something seriously wrong with Fos. Wondering if I'm going to get the call that the school psychologist has been called in to evaluate his "awareness of where he is in time and space." (That phrase is forever burned into my brain, in case you couldn't tell.) Wondering if he's going to be OK in school and successful in life. Wondering if his teachers are going to like him and understand him and motivate him, or if they're going to label him as "that bad kid who doesn't follow directions." Thinking about the middle school students I counsel every day. The ones who battle with authority or live to be the class clown or view the world differently than most. The ones who don't quite fit in. Thinking about how their parents have had to hear concerns like the one I just heard from Foster's teacher. Feeling such a renewed rush of empathy for them. Knowing that they spend many sleepless nights worrying about the children they love so much and hoping things will turn out OK.

And, so, here I am, after waking up at 2:00am. Again. Worrying about how Fos will do tomorrow, on his second day of kindergarten. Crossing my fingers and hoping for the best. Hoping he has fun. Hoping he follows the rules. Hoping he makes new friends. Hoping this teacher will like and appreciate my wonderful, challenging little boy and nurture his love of learning.

Ironically, Fos woke up just a few minutes ago, crawled into my lap, and buried his little head into my shoulder.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

"I had a bad dream."

Maybe I'm not the only one who's worried about tomorrow...

Sometimes you just need life to smack you in the head to get your priorities straight.

2010-09-10T19:13:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough couple of weeks. Organizing an orientation for 200 new 6th grade students. Nightmare. Figuring out how to help keep things running smoothly with a new principal, new assistant principal, new head secretary, new PTSA, and multiple other new staff members, all while trying not to lose my mind and be a fully-functioning and capable school counselor for the students, parents, and staff with whom I work. Not a nightmare, but pretty damn crazy. Oh, and then there's not knowing if my position is going to become full-time (please, please, please....) when my partner counselor goes on leave in two weeks to have fun, expensive adventures that I will probably never be able to have myself. That means paying for daycare we can't afford and don't even need at the moment, because we have to reserve the spots in case I get to go full time. But no one in charge will make up their mind and tell me what the bleep is going on!!! Oh, and did I mention that my little Foster is about to start kindergarten, and my little Spencer has just become a first-grader, going to school all day for the very first time? Probably goes without saying, but I'm a bit of a wreck...

So, it's Friday night, I'm shaking off the week's craziness with a big ol' glass of cabernet, while my boys watch a Tom and Jerry movie in their pj's and stay up past their bedtimes. (They are SO stoked right now!)
Frankly, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself when I logged on to do a little writing tonight. Whining in my head about how hard things are right now, how life's not fair, blah, blah, blahdee blah, blah... Just throwing a big old pity party for ME. I was all ready to bitch and moan about every little thing that's been on my mind from work drama to chronic insomnia to the insanity that has become our United States political system. Verbal diarrhea to rid myself of all the crap in my head, y'know? My own little version of self-directed therapy.

And then...

...I read a blog entry, written by this amazing woman named Kami, and it was a big, fat reminder of just how lucky I am and just how good I have it. Her best friend just lost the love of her life in a horrible accident. Kami wrote eloquently about being in the hospital, hearing the doctor's comments, waiting to see if he'd make it through the night, consoling her friend and feeling helpless to do anything substantial to take away her pain. I can only imagine the agony these women are experiencing right now.

It was moving, heartbreaking, so completely senseless and tragic.

And, it was a great reminder that life is precious and short and can be taken away in a heartbeat. That you have to let the crap run off your back. That it's OK to whine for just a little while, and then you have to tell yourself to suck it up and to focus on the joy and love and moments of happiness that occur all around you, every single day of your life. That you have to choose to brush off the ugliness and to appreciate the beauty that is in your world.

I am so lucky. I have beautiful, healthy, imaginative, wonderful, feisty little boys. I have a husband who loves me and is my very best friend. I have an amazing family, wonderful friends, and a warm, nurturing little home. I have a job that fulfills me and challenges me and that I take such pride in doing well. My world is filled with love and laughter and music. And, I need to appreciate every precious second of it.

I love my life.

Cheers!

Just wrong, on so many levels!

2010-08-31T20:02:00.000-07:00

So, I'm standing in line at the coffee stand that's inside our local Fred Meyer store. (I know, I know, I'm supposed to be saving money. Whatever. It was a momentary lapse in financial judgment. I just really, really, DESERVED a vanilla latte! Cut me some slack...)

Anyhoo, standing in front of me was a very thin, extremely well-dressed, elegant-looking woman, about my age. Beside her, stood her equally thin, equally well-dressed daughter, who looked to be about 7 years old (but decked out like a 22-year old fashion model). Meanwhile, I'm in my sweatpants, Obama t-shirt, and baseball hat, thanking my lucky stars that my 5 and 6 year old boys (who are also wearing sweats, t-shirts, and baseball hats) can still visit Playland, while I do my grocery shopping and/or sneak a few quiet minutes to splurge on a latte.

Elegant Mom looks down at her daughter and says, "What do you want today, honey?"

Fashion model daughter (keep in mind that this little girl can't be any older than 7....maybe 8, tops) looks up at Elegant Mom and says, "Decaf caramel machiatto, Mommy. Don't forget to make it nonfat."

And Elegant Mom ordered it for her.

When did 7-year olds start dresing up like fashion models and ordering fancy coffee drinks, instead of skinning their knees making chalk art pictures on the driveway and having apple juice tea parties with their stuffed animals?

It's just not right....

Sigh.

To Love!

2010-08-16T17:36:00.000-07:00

I really, really, really hope that by the time my boys are old enough to read these ramblings of mine, they'll come to this post and say, "Wow. It sure was different back in the old days. Back then, gay people in most states weren't allowed to marry. Can you believe that? Times sure have changed for the better!"

Crossing my fingers...

After all, for all I know, my sons may be gay. And, if they are in loving, committed relationships and want to get married and start families with their chosen partners, I want them to have the same legal right to do so that I had to marry their Dad. I want them to share in the joy we felt on the day we committed ourselves to one another, completely, in front of the people we love the most. The day we became a family. And, no, I don't believe a "civil commitment ceremony" is the same thing. If it was, then gay couples wouldn't be fighting for the right to legally marry one another, now would they?

I mean, imagine for a moment, that you are engaged to be married to the person you have chosen as your lifemate. You can't wait to be legally joined in marriage. Suddenly, a judge decrees that you can't do that:

"Ahem, sorry, folks. A bunch of other people, who will actually be totally unaffected in any tangible way by your marriage, think it's wrong for you to marry. They feel threatened by the two of you declaring your love and commitment in this way, and they're going to band together to block your right to do just that. They seem to think that it undermines their own marriages in some way. Some sort of moral issue. Could be insecurity, I'm not really sure. Regardless, we're not gonna let you get married. We will, however, let you have a commitment ceremony. It's really the same thing, so no worries, OK?"

Yeah, right. You wouldn't be satisfied with that. If it was you, you'd fight for your right to marry the person you love. And you would be right to fight.

I just don't get it. Especially when so many of the folks who so adamantly oppose gay marriage base their argument on religious principals. Whatever happened to "love thy neighbor as thyself?" What about acceptance and respect and charity and freedom and the right to pursue happiness and all of those other values that are, supposedly, also so highly valued by these same folks? I just can't believe, in our modern world, with all that has been scientifically proven about the biology of human sexuality, that there are still people who can look at a committed, stable, loving, gay couple and say, "Nope. No way. You can't get married. Sorry. You're different. You make me uncomfortable. You threaten my beliefs about marriage, so I'm gonna say NO!" These are not the dark ages, here. We're not burning depressed women at the stake for being witches, anymore. We know the world is round, not flat. Come on, people. It's a brave, new world. Let's embrace it, in all of its wondrous, and ever-changing complexity. Let's evolve!

So, to my sons, who I love more than anything else in the world...I hope you're reading this and saying, "Wow. I'm so glad the world isn't like it was when Mom wrote this post."

To love!

How come the only person in the house who doesn't actually LEAVE pee drips all over the bathroom is the only one cleaning them up???

2010-08-06T14:25:00.000-07:00

SERIOUSLY!

Now, I knew it would be challenging living in a house full of boys. Being outnumbered, three-to-one. I knew it would be louder and messier than living in, say, a house where the females outnumber the Daddy, instead of the other way around. I knew it. I expected it. And, I am not so naive to think that it isn't going to get a whole lot worse, when my little guys hit puberty. (I am a middle school counselor, afterall. I have no delusions about the sights, smells, and hormonal surges of adolescence that await my little family...)

But, if I have to clean up one more droplet of pee from the toilet seat, back of the toilet, side of the toilet, floor right in front of the toilet, wall right next to the toilet, shower curtain a foot away from the toilet, or anywhere else in either of my bathrooms, I am going to LOSE IT! It's not going to be pretty. This mommy's head is literally going to spontaneously combust and then somebody ELSE will have to clean up the *@*!!@*!!* mess!

The really frustrating thing is that I've been working with my boys on wiping their drips, since the time they began to show an inkling of interest in the potty. I foolishly deluded myself into thinking that I could instill in my boys an early habit of cleaning up after their own bodily fluids. (You know, maybe try to make a difference in this generation, since it obviously didn't happen with my husband, when he was a child.) Regardless, it didn't work. Unless I am right there next to them, reminding them every single time they pee, or shouting from the other room, "Don't forget to wipe your drips!", it just doesn't happen, most of the time.

What's a mother to do??? I know that I could go on strike. I could shout to the world that I am no longer cleaning a toilet in this house. But, the truth is, that's total bunk. There's just no way I could allow my bathrooms to get to the point of pee-soaked stinkiness that all three of my boys (I'm including hubby here) would be able to tolerate quite happily. Not. Gonna. Happen. I don't want to have a house that smells like a men's locker room in a Seattle train station. I do occasionally have company, and there are some minimum standards of cleanliness and lack-of-stinkiness that should apply, don't you think?

On the positive side...All three of my boys do put down the toilet seat when they're done.

Most of the time...

I need a glass of wine.

Cheers!

FOSTER: Five and Fabulous!

2010-08-01T20:25:00.000-07:00

For Foster, who turned 5 years old just a few days ago. I hope you'll look back on this, when you're a lot older, and get a kick out of reading about yourself when you were just a little guy:

F is for "feisty." Actually, "feisty" doesn't even begin to describe you, sweetie. You are full of energy, creativity, and mischievousnous. (I'm not sure that's a real word, but it should be!) You live to make other people laugh, and you'll do ANYTHING (much to the dismay of your preschool teachers) for that giggle. You are also fond of saying things like, "You're not the boss of me!" and "You can't tell me what to do!", even when the people you're saying these things to actually are in charge, or are kids twice your size who are attempting to control you in some way. This doesn't always go over so well, in either case. Needless to say, kindergarten is going to be a really interesting experience...I'm crossing my fingers, and I will have your back!

O is for "optimistic." Here's where you really take after me -- You almost always see the bright side of things. Like me, you can have a good, juicy meltdown now and then, but you're also quick to laugh, quick to rally when things aren't going so well, and quick to cheer everybody else up with some sort of crazy face, voice, picture, or dance move.

S is for "singer." You love to sing. You remember the words to almost every song you hear. And, if you don't remember, you are really good at making up lyrics that fit anyway. You also make up your own songs, on the spot, and they're always hilarious and rhyme perfectly. You have a sweet voice, great pitch, and awesome rhythm. A natural musician, that's for sure.

T is for "tough." You are one tough little cookie. Half the time, the only way I know you're hurt is to follow the blood trail...You're always covered with scratches, bruises, and bumps, and you love, love, love to put on bandaids. (You also love to keep taking them off to see how quickly your owies are healing. As a result, I am constantly buying new boxes of bandaids!) But, you seldom actually cry when you get hurt, and you bounce right up, saying "Don't worry, I'm OK!" after falls and accidents that would leave other 5-year olds lying in sobbing puddles on the floor.

E is for "empathetic." While you are often the one who causes mischief and mayhem, you're also the first one to give hugs, snuggles, and back rubs if someone is hurt or sad. You often make me cards or pictures after you've been in time out, just to say you're sorry. And, on those days when I'm a little down, you do everything you can to give me extra loving and to cheer me up. If your brother is hurt, you rush to him and give him hugs (even when he's pushing you away). You also have a soft heart when it comes to animals. If you see an animal that looks hurt or alone, you want to make sure it's all right. You are best friends with our dog, Lucy, even though you often pull her tail or play too roughly with her. But, she thinks of you as her puppy, and you are most definitely her favorite person in the house. And, you usually run to say goodnight to both of our dogs before you go to sleep. You do it in the most gentle, sweet way. Even our grouchy old Cosmo wags his tail when you rub his neck and tell him that you love him and that you'll see him in the morning. You have a really good heart and a tender nature, and I hope you always will.

R is for "rowdy." Wow, kiddo. When you are wound up, it's like a hurricane is sweeping through here. Wait, more like a tornado combined with an earthquake, sweeping everything up into your path and whirling around the house, the front yard, the back yard...all while talking, yelling, singing, or laughing at full volume! It's pretty hilarious, except when it's happening at 6am, and I'm trying desperately to catch just a few more minutes of sleep. (Yeah, right!)

I love you, sweetie. So much. I am so proud and excited and happy to be your Mommy. You definitely keep me on my toes, challenge me, frustrate me, and drive me crazy sometimes. But, you also warm my heart, crack me up, constantly surprise me with your intelligence and thoughtfulness and creativity, and give me all the hugs and kisses I could ever want. Plus, you're the best kitchen floor dance partner a girl could ever ask for! (Favorite dancing-in-the-kitchen-with-Mommy-songs: "I Like to Move It" from Madagascar and "Tonight's Gonna Be a Good Night" by the Black Eyed Peas. Favorite dancing-in-the-kitchen-with-Mommy-outfit: Curly wig with a purple and white "Cat in the Hat" hat perched on top, a scarf, and bear feet slippers. Very cool!)

Happy 5th Birthday, my amazing little guy! I can't wait to see what this year will bring...

Alternative uses for underpants....

2010-07-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

"What do you think of our hats, Mommy?"
"Nice hats, huh?"
"We're SUPERHEROES!"
"You put one on, Mommy!"
"Yeah. Put one on!"
"Come ON Mommy!"
(giggle, giggle)

Did I put underwear on my head?
The world will never know...

CHEERS!

Out of the mouths of little boys...

2010-07-30T13:36:00.000-07:00

So, all four of us -- Spence, Fos, Daddy, & Mommy -- went swimming at the Y yesterday. Afterwards, we were crammed into one of those teeny little family changing rooms. You know the ones I'm talking about? The rooms so small that you're literally bumping elbows and knees (and every other body part) while you try to get everybody showered and dressed and out the door? It sounds a little like this:

"I HAVE SOAP IN MY EYES!!!!!"

"Mommy! Where's my flip-flop? I can't find my other flip-flop!"

"HEY, quit stepping on my underpants!"

"OW!"

"My bathing suit fell off the hook."

"Honey, can you hand me my bra?"

"It's not in here."

"Yes, it is. Look under your pants."

"Oh, there it is."

"MY EYES!!!!!!"

"My bathing suit fell off the hook again."

"Where's my shirt? Hey -- That's not YOUR shirt! That's MY shirt! Take it OFF!"

"I'm HOT! Why is it so HOT in here?"

"Yeah, I'm sweaty. I need to get back in the shower again."

"Who thought swimming was a good idea today?"

"Put your shorts on."

"I still can't find my flip-flop!"

"He's touching me!"

"My bathing suit fell off the hook again."

Etc., etc., etc...

Anyway, in the midst of this chaos, Fos turns to me and says,

"Mommy, what's that thing called that girls have but that boys don't have? You know? Boys have penises and girls have that other thing? What's that called again?"

Now, we've always used correct terminology in this household -- no nicknames for private parts, like Pee-Pee or Hoo Haw or anything like that. So, I know that he knows what this particular body part is called. So, I try to prompt him a little, without giving it away:

"Well, boys have a penis, and girls have a vvvvvvvvvv......" (I start making the "v" sound, to give him a hint.)

"I KNOW! I KNOW!...Girls have a VENUS!!!"

I don't know why this was so funny, but all four of us dissolved into totally uncontrollable giggles at this statement. Spencer and Foster started chanting, "Boys have a penis, girls have a venus!" over and over again, while John and I just looked at each other, helplessly laughing.

Ya gotta love kids! And, now I'm always going to think of myself as having a "venus". heh, heh...

Cheers!

I LOVE MY PRESIDENT, AND I DON'T CARE WHO KNOWS IT!

2010-07-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama is amazing. In less than 2 years, he's managed to work with one of the most divisive, immature, and politically-motivated congresses in history to keep us out of a depression and start to reverse the recession brought on by 8 years of mis-management under George W., single-handedly began to significantly undo the damage done to America's global reputation over the past 8 years under George W., pass sweeping health care legislation, reform Wallstreet to protect all of our investments, make significant progress toward repealing "Don't Ask, Don't Tell", and that's just a start.

He's amazing. Totally amazing.

So, I'll say it again: I love my President, and I don't care who knows it!!!

Congress, on the other hand, makes me want to throw up. Grow up, folks. Let's get it done!

Cheers!

Suncatchers are NOT for Sissies!

2010-07-22T09:07:00.000-07:00

I kid you not. There's a reason it says "Age 8+" on those damn things. Believe it! I think it should be more like "Age 28+". So, to all the Grandmas and Grandpas, who see a suncatcher kit and think to themselves, "I betcha my 5 and 6 year old grandsons would LOVE to make suncatchers with their Mommy!" -- DON'T DO IT! If you love the mother of your grandchildren at all, you will not buy the suncatcher kits.

Why? I'll tell you why...

Because, even if you have the most patient, creative, focused young children on the planet, you, the Mommy, will end up at the kitchen table, alone with your tweezers, finishing the suncatchers your children gave up on after 15 frustrating minutes of trying to get the hundreds of itty bitty, teeny weeny, little color beads into the various nooks and crannies of the mold. And, at some point during this laborious task, one of your children is bound to knock into the table, sending the hundreds of itty bitty, teeny weeny, little color beads flying in all directions, forcing you to start over. And, you don't dare give up on the project, because your kids can't WAIT to see the suncatchers hanging in the window, catching the light and casting rainbows onto your kitchen cabinets. They are SO excited, because Grandma and Grandpa sent them this fun, fun, project to do. They don't want to actually finish it, because it's too hard and requires the patience of a nun. But, they are desperately excited about the end result (which you will be providing). So, as much as you'd like to pick up the cookie sheet, the suncatcher molds, and the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of itty bitty, teeny weeny little color beads and and hurl them all into the trashcan...you can't. You must persevere for the sake of your children.

Sigh.

The things we do for love.

Cheers!

BUMMER!

2010-07-14T17:40:00.000-07:00

Ever had one of those days where you wake up and look at yourself in the mirror and think, "Hey. I look pretty good. Pretty. Damn. Good."??? Well, these days seem to occur less and less frequently as time marches across my face, but, this morning was one of those rare good ones.

Seriously. I looked in the mirror this morning, and I looked good. My wrinkles seemed less wrinkly. My hair looked fuller and shinier. Those strange, perimenopause zits that keep appearing on my chin had completely disappeared. Even my pores seemed smaller and tighter. Woo hoo! So, I gave myself a big smile and a mental pat-on-the-back, as I reached for my toothbrush.

That's when I realized why I looked so good...

I hadn't put in my contacts, yet.

Bummer!

"Hey, Mommy! Mommy! We made sandwiches. Come eat one!"

2010-07-12T11:42:00.000-07:00

Any mother reading this right now (particularly if she is, like me, a mother of young sons), is cringing slightly at what might be coming...I swear, it's not that bad. No slugs or other creepy crawlies. No leaves, twigs, dog hair, or dirt. No items that do not actually qualify as "food"...

So, here's how it all happened. I feel like crap today. Don't know if it's something I ate, or a lack of sleep, or a summer cold coming on...Could just be that I'm going so crazy, now that I'm in my 7th week of being in a cast, that my body is just giving up and saying, "Hey, if you can't go anywhere or do anything, anyway, you may as well just be sick!" Anyway, I just woke up feeling really crummy. Headache. Yucky tummy. Overall aches and pains. So, I did what any self-respecting sick Mommy does -- I bribed my children with promises of a late-morning viewing of "Bolt", if they would play nicely for a while, while I tried to rest. Well, to my great surprise, my boys really rose to the challenge. Yes, there were a few arguments, but they resolved them on their own, without bloodshed this time, and they actually played together very well from about 7am to 10:00am, while I semi-napped on my bed. Thank goodness for small miracles!

Then, I got the call...

"Mommy! Come here!"

"Hey, Mommy! Mommy! We made sandwiches. Come eat one!"

"For real, Mommy! We cooked. You can have one too!"

Oh, boy. Wincing in anticipation of what I might find, I grabbed my crutches and headed up the hallway to the kitchen. Dum da dum dum... There, I found my boys, each holding a HUGE bag of bread, big grins on their faces. (They had used an entire loaf-and-a-half of bread!) On the counter was our block of cheese, which had been hacked into pieces with (gasp) one of the sharp knives my boys are forbidden to use without parental supervision. My visceral reaction, after checking to make sure both boys had all of their fingers, was to holler at them for using the knife without me. But, then Spencer looked up at me with big eyes and a shy little smile and said, "Mommy, I was very, very careful with the sharp cutting knife. I wanted to make you cheese and cookie sandwiches. Want one?" And Foster piped in with, "And I didn't use the sharp knife at all, 'cuz I'm too little." How could I yell at them after that, I ask you? So, a firm, but gentle reminder that they are never to use the sharp knives without Mommy or Daddy, even for surprise sandwiches, was all they got. Then, I noticed the other sandwich ingredients on the counter. Pieces of mashed up banana. Ginger snap cookies. Whipped cream. And, there was an odd, familiar odor in the air, that I just couldn't place...

"What's that weird smell you guys?"

"What weird smell?"

"It smells funny in here. What else did you use in your sandwiches?"

"Oh. That was the sauce we were gonna put on the sandwiches. But, it didn't taste good. It's in the sink."

I looked in the sink. There was reddish-orange liquid, mixed in with whipped cream, splashed all over it.

"What IS that?!"

"We told you, Mommy. It's the sauce. But, it wasn't good."

"What did you use to make the sauce?"

"This red stuff!" (Spence reached into the refrigerator and pulled out...Tabasco sauce. Yep, I have no doubt that Tabasco and whipped cream sandwiches did NOT taste good! Thankfully, I didn't have to find out.)

So, for a mid-morning snack, today, Spence munched on ginger snap cookie and cheese sandwiches, I added some peanut butter to the mashed banana sandwich for Fos, ate a couple of bites of cheese, and forced down one bite of the whipped cream sandwich that Foster had made "...Just for you, Mommy, because you LOVE whipped cream so much! It's to make you feel better."

Needless to say, I'm still feeling crappy (especially after the whipped cream sandwich). But, I had a good belly laugh with my boys this morning, and that's the best medicine there is, eh?

Cheers!

You're Six?!!! How did that happen???

2010-07-03T08:33:00.000-07:00

Spence turned 6 years old today. Sigh. It's not that I really mind the passage of time, because it seems like every stage in my boys' lives is more fun than the stage before (with new, surprising challenges to go with each one). But, how is it possible that 6 whole years have gone by since I first held my little guy in my arms? Seriously! No wonder I'm so tired. The last 6 years have been a blur...

Now, someday, I hope my sons will read this online journal of mine, and then they'll really know how nuts their Mom was/is. With that in mind, this is for you, Spence. Just a little snapshot of you, at the tender age of 6 (sniff, sniff, sob):

You are in CONSTANT motion! People use words like "busy" and "energetic" to describe you, when they're really thinking "Does this boy EVER slow down?!!" Your philosophy seems to be "Why walk, when you can run?"
You are very, very skinny. Partly because you run everywhere. Partly because you are an incredibly picky eater! And, partly because you have a metabolism like a humming bird. You actually lose weight overnight and wake up a couple of pounds lighter than you were the night before. Then, you have to eat all day to put the weight back on. How come that can't happen to me??? Doesn't seem fair...
You love to play with other people, but you also need your "alone time". It's very important to you. Your favorite thing to do, when you need a little time by yourself, is to take one of my kitchen spoons (especially the slotted spoon) and disappear into your bedroom or the office with it. You have an incredible imagination, and you pretend that spoon is everything from an archery bow to a spaceship to some sort of ray gun. It's a total blast to listen outside the door to you humming tunes to yourself and making cool, mystery noises. You will sometimes play for an hour or so, all by yourself, happy as a clam with your spoon. But, you are shy about other kids knowing that you love to play imagination games with a spoon, so you won't let us talk about it when you have friends over....
You adore chocolate! Absolutely love it. Your birthday cake for today is, of course, chocolate cake with chocolate icing. And, you are one of the messiest eaters I've ever seen (followed closely by your Daddy). So, everytime you eat chocolate, you somehow manage to get it all over your cheeks, in your hair, and all over your lap, the table, your chair, the floor...
You're a really great reader. You've just fnished Kindergarten, but you're reading at a second grader's level. You're just a natural, and we're so proud of you and so happy that you love to read as much as we do! Your handwriting, on the other hand...
You are a world class snuggler with Mommy and Daddy, but you are very choosy about who else you'll hug or kiss or snuggle. You are not the kind of boy who just runs up and freely hugs friends and family members. You have to feel really safe and secure and happy with them before you'll just offer up your affection. We have always respected that, and we never force you to hug or kiss anyone, even family. Well, OK, we did tell you that you have to hug your little brother after he gave you a Bakugan Yo-Yo for your birthday today...
Right now, your absolute favorite thing to do is to ride your bike. Rain or shine, around and around and around our cul-de-sac. I think, though, that riding your bike is about to be eclipsed by riding the Razor scooter you just got from us for your 6th birthday. You are bursting with excitement about it, so I'm going to wrap this up, so we can go try it out...

I love you, peanut. Happy birthday!

Cheers!

Who needs "bling" when you've got string?

2010-06-29T09:23:00.000-07:00

I have friends who have daughters....sweet, clean, relatively quiet daughters...who make their Mommies "love gifts" of necklaces and bracelets out of hand-picked colored beads....jewelry they actually resembles jewelry, you know? Jewelry that they can wear to work and show off to their friends as they beam with pride and love...

Yesterday, my little boys, feeling full of love and appreciation (an extremely RARE feeling, that last one), decided to make me necklaces "Cuz you have a cast on your leg, Mommy, and 'cuz you made us macaroni and cheese." (If only it was this easy to please everybody, eh?)

So, they asked me to leave the kitchen, and I promised not to "peek."

Here's what happened next:

"Shhhhhh.....Don't look, Mommy!" Giggle, giggle.

Sound of drawers opening and closing, as I crossed my fingers and hoped nothing was being broken.

Loud giggling. "Give me the scissors!" (Scissors?!!!)

Sound of scissors crashing to the ground. More giggling and whispering.

"Um....Are you guys OK out there? Are you being safe?"

"Oh yeah, Mommy." Louder giggling. "You're gonna LOVE this!"

"Mommmyyyy....Where are the rubber bands?"

"Behind the balloon bag in the junk drawer." (Oh, boy!)

More giggling...more crashing sounds....and then....

"OK, Mommy. You can look!"

"Come ON, Mommy. Come see what we made!"

So, I grabbed my crutches and walked into the kitchen to view their masterpieces...

Spence put "A REAL JEWEL, MOMMY!" (translation: a marble he found in the junk drawer) to personalize his necklace. Fos used a rubberband, "'Cuz you like colors, Mommy."

I wore them all morning.

I love my boys.

Cheers!

As a matter-of-fact, a 42-year old woman CAN throw a temper tantrum that rivals a 3-year-old's!

2010-06-25T09:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had yet another one of my less-than-shining moments as a mother. I know, I know, it's hard to believe that one Mom can have so many screw-ups, but cut me some slack. I'm in my 4th week of being in a non-weight-bearing cast, with a minimum of 4 more weeks to go before I can transition to "the boot" and begin months of physical therapy. I haven't had a good night's sleep since surgery (Have you TRIED to sleep with your foot in a cast?), my armpits are sore from the crutches, my knee is swollen from the knee scooter, and I can't drive, because of the cast, so I'm trapped at home all summer with two little boys who give new meaning to the words "energetic" and "busy" and are driving me crazy, saying things like:

"Mommy? Why can't we go to the park? Come on! We want to go to the park. Pleeeeeaaaassseeee?????" (Me too, kids. Then, you could entertain yourselves on the play equipment while I semi-doze on the park bench instead of trying to find ways to occupy your time at home. All day. Every day. With only one working leg.)

"Mommy...Play soccer with us! Can't you take off your cast and play with us? Daddy plays soccer with us!" (Yep. Daddy is the king of the world. The "cool" parent. The two-legged parent. Trouble is, he's hardly ever here. So, deal with it. I have to.)

"Moooommmmmmmmyyyyyyyy.....I want to go somewhere! I don't want to ride bikes in the cul-de-sac anymore. How come you never take us anywhere???" (YOU want to go somewhere? Try being trapped in the house, in a cast, taking care of two little boys. Believe me, I know about wanting to go SOMEWHERE. Anywhere. Anywhere but here...)

"Mommy! We want some yogurt. Can we go to the store and get some yogurt? You can take us to Playland. Please? Pleeeeeaaaassseee?" (You need yogurt. I need an over-priced latte and 5 minutes to myself. We're both out of luck.)

"I wish Daddy was home from work. He takes us places! Daddy's fun like you used to be." (Ouch!)

Soooo...this brings me to yesterday's temper tantrum. Even though I usually manage to view life with an optimistic eye, I admit to the occasional "meltdown". However, this typically involves me dissolving into tears in the shower, where nobody can see or hear Mommy losing it and freak out.

Yesterday was another story. Yesterday was a full-on, crying, yelling, and, yes, even throwing-of-an-object temper tantrum. In the kitchen. Right in front of my boys. Sigh. Again, here I am earning the Mother-of-the-Year Award...Anyhoo, after cleaning a filthy bathroom on my knees, (a task which has been completely ignored by hubby -- the aforementioned soccer hero -- until it has become absolutely necessary), emptying the dishwasher (usually an easy task, but much harder when you can't just walk around the kitchen, putting dishes where they go), cooking spaghetti for my little guys (because they've been eating peanut butter and jelly night and day for the last week), and taking an overflowing bag of trash out back to the trash can (a journey which now involves my knee scooter, a wheelchair ramp, steering around two lazy dogs, fighting with a back gate, twisting my body around into a position never-before-seen by any yoga teacher to get the bag into the trashcan, and then turning around to make the trip back). Again, these are tasks that I used to be able to complete in no time at all, with very little effort. Now, those same "easy" tasks take me 5 times longer and usually end up with me sweating and exhausted, with my ankle throbbing and my toes swollen into unrecognizable sausages! So, I had completed all the stuff that had to be done, put the kids' plates down in front of them, and was starting on the task of cleaning up from the spaghetti prep., when I heard this:

"Spaghetti? I HATE spaghetti!" (Since when???)

"Me too. I hate spaghetti. I want peanut butter and jelly!" (!!!)

That was it. With sweat pouring down my face, my foot screaming at me "ELEVATE ME! ELEVATE ME!", and a half-washed pot in my hands, I glared at the little boys I love more than life itself, threw the pot into the sink, where it made a satisfyingly eardrum-shattering CRASH!!!, yelled at the top of my lungs, "MAYBE YOU COULD TRY SAYING 'THANKS FOR TAKING CARE OF US, MOMMY!' INSTEAD OF COMPLAINING ABOUT YOUR LUNCH!", sank off of the knee scooter onto the floor, and burst into loud, ugly, snot-running-down-the-face sobbing. Lovely parenting there, Beth. I'm so proud.

Anyway, after about ten minutes of Mommy crying and freaking out, the situation was resolved by lots of hugs and kisses, the kids getting to watch a movie while I took a nap, an early-afternoon glass of wine (hey, it was 5 o'clock somewhere in the world), and sidewalk chalk and bike-riding in the cul-de-sac until dinner time.

And, yes, we had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner.

Cheers!

"When Worlds Collide" OR "Small Boys vs. Exhausted Grandparents"

2010-06-23T17:18:00.000-07:00

I'm baaaaaack... It's been almost 4 weeks since my ankle was taken apart and, mostly, put back together again. Most of this time was spent under the influence of narcotic pain medicine that left me in a significantly altered (and frequently puking) state. Hubby said it was like having a "Beth mannequin" in the house. I just remember it as a haze of pain and throwing up and being told over and over and over again just to lie in bed. Bedrest, for those of you who know me, is just about the worst thing you could do to me. Telling me, the woman who can't sit still, to lie in bed all day, every day, and not do anything. Complete torture! And, I was too drugged up to focus on a T.V. show or read a book, so it was doubly horrendous.

Lucky for us, my parents (who deserve to be sainted for this) drove 8 hours from their home in Walla Walla, leaving their beloved cat in the care of a neighbor, and moved into our teeny little guest room/office for the first 3 weeks post-surgery, so that my little boys wouldn't have to fend for themselves during Mommy's drug-addled recovery phase. My Mom and Dad: Two lovely people in their 70's, who have completely forgotten how normal 4 and 5 year old kids behave, let alone the amount of energy required to keep them occupied. Oh, my poor, poor, exhausted parents. And, there wasn't much I could do to help them. Every time I tried to get up to do anything helpful, my toes swelled up like hot dogs, I started sweating and shaking, and I had to go lie down again. As a result, while I lay in bed, my head spinning from the medication, I got to overhear lots of semi-whispered conversations that went something like this:

"Why are those boys always picking on each other? I don't remember our kids behaving like that!"

"I know. These two can't walk down the hallway without pushing each other or poking each other. Why do they fight over everything? Our kids NEVER did that!!! What these kids need is a good spanking!"

"Why do these boys fight about eating their vegetables? They should just eat the stuff they don't like first and get it over with, instead of saving it until last! Don't they understand that?"

"That's right. And, our kids always ate whatever we put on their plates!"

(Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say. THEY might not remember, but my siblings and I certainly do remember the battles we fought over every toy, every game, every neighborhood friend, every treat...Not to mention the everyday teasing, tricking, and picking at eachother that was a recurring theme of our childhood...Then, there are the countless incidences of my Dad hollering, "NO HORSEPLAY IN THE CAR! DON'T MAKE ME PULL OVER, OR YOU'LL BE SORRY!" This followed, of course, by us continuing our bad behavior, Dad pulling over, and the yelling that ensued. He just doesn't remember it...As for eating everything on our plates...Are you kidding me? I remember epic battles over the consumption of mushrooms, broccoli, and various other food items, as well as a certain incident involving buttermilk that resulted in actual vomiting. By the way, we were spanked, and it didn't make one bit of difference in the amount of time we spent mouthing off, as well as tormenting and competing with one another. Hmmmm....)

My Dad's coping strategy was to deliberately leave out his hearing aids, so he could have some peace and quiet and read the paper. Unfortunately, this left Grandma in charge, most of the time, as she was the only one who could hear my boys' high-pitched little voices asking for snacks or juice or stories or for somebody to come see the slugs in the backyard. Poor Grandma. What a trooper.

Anyway, my favorite overhead conversation from the last few weeks was between my Dad and my sons during bathtime. It was the perfect illustration of the developmental chasm that exists between my folks' generation and my little boys:

Grandsons: Squabble, squabble...
Grandpa: "Why are you getting so bent out of shape? Your brother's actions aren't impinging on you!"
Grandsons: Total silence.

Forget, for a moment, that half the grown-ups I know don't even know the meaning of the term "impinging", let alone 4 and 5 year old boys. I was lying in bed envisioning my sons thinking, "Bent out of shape? What does he mean? We're not bent in some weird shape. All we did was smack each other! What is Grandpa talking about?!!" I wanted to yell something supportive, but, to be honest, I was giggling really hard and trying to do it quietly...

Ahhh, yes. It's been an interesting few weeks...And, even though I'm not in fighting form yet and could certainly still use all the help I can get, I think we were all ready for a little break from each other. A little return to normalcy (or as "normal" as it gets around here, anyway). Mom and Dad are back at home with their cat and their nice, orderly lives. The boys and I are figuring out how to navigate daily summer life with a Mommy on crutches. Hubby's discovering that there are a lot of things I used to do that I can't do when I'm in a cast and can't drive, so he's dealing with the shock and kicking into high gear. It's all working out...

And, with a little distance between us, come the good memories from our weeks together: Grandpa and the boys hunting for crabs under the rocks at the park...Grandma reading countless stories with a riveted grandson snuggled up on each side of her lap...The whole family celebrating Foster's "graduation" from preschool...Hubby and grandparents all hopping onto our bed with me to root for New Zealand in the World Cup...Drinking margaritas in the back yard on Father's Day...Sitting on the porch swing watching the boys ride their bikes around the cul-de-sac...Yep. Good times.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, from the bottom of my heart. You may not understand my little boys' behavior. You may not agree with our decision not to spank. You may think time-outs are silly, and that our house is completely chaotic and crazy. But, you love us all anyway, and you're always there when we need you. I love you, and I hope you're resting up for your next visit in August...

Cheers!

The countdown has begun AND did you see that finale???!!!

2010-05-23T20:42:00.000-07:00

First things first...Did you see the Grey's Anatomy finale? To quote all of my teenage students: "OMG!!!" I was completely on the edge of my seat (or, more accurately, the edge of my pillow in my nice, soft, cozy bed) the entire time. I was gripping my wine glass so hard, I thought it might crack. Disaster! I'm not sure I've ever seen such an exciting, suspensful, unexpected season finale in all my life. It was really good. And, since I consider trash TV like Grey's Anatomy and Desperate Housewives to be one of the keys to my sanity, I am proud to announce to the world how much I loved the finale. Seriously. Great television!

Completely unrelated to the above paragraph....I am now only 2 1/2 days away from surgery, and the clock is ticking...I spent the morning cooking meals to put in the freezer, because I remember from last time how damn hard it is to cook when you're on crutches. Then, three of my generous and lovely co-workers showed up with more meals for the freezer. Meals they had spent all morning preparing by hand. Good meals too. We're not talking tater tot casserole and macaroni and cheese here. We're talking sirloin, roast chicken, hawaiian meatballs, spare ribs...My family will be eating a lot better than they usually do.

It was incredibly sweet...and...it made this whole thing seem a lot more real. I really am about to have my ankle basically taken apart, pieces removed, new pieces put in, tendons and ligaments re-arranged, holes bored into bones...followed by months and months of rehabilitation. And, I'm kinda freaking out. Yes, I went through the first surgery just fine, and I'm sure I'll be OK this time around. Still...freaking.
The great thing is this...I can maintain my calm exterior with my family (with the exception of my meltdown the other day), and I can save my freak out to send out into cyberland to anyone who might be listening. That way, I appear to be handling this all with tremendous grace under pressure. NOT!

So, off I go...Wish me luck...Not sure when I'll be back, but I will be back!

Cheers!

The straw that broke this camel's back. Yes, I'm calling myself a camel. Whatever! I've been called worse.

2010-05-22T19:45:00.000-07:00

I think, under the current circumstances, that I've been keeping things together pretty well. Did I have a minor meltdown upon learning that hubby dear is being laid off AGAIN? Yes, but it was mild, and I pulled it all together pretty quickly. Have I had my moments of despair about my upcoming surgery and being on crutches for who knows how many months afterwards while trying to take care of two little boys? Of course. But, if you don't count that one really scary dream I had about cadaver ligaments coming to life and bursting through my cast, as well as just a couple of minor little sobbing spells in the shower, I think I've handled that situation with a fair amount of stoicism and optimism as well.

But, there is only so much one woman can take.

And, Thursday's little adventure was the one that did me in...

It has to do with my darling old dog, Cosmo. I adopted him from the pound when he was just a little guy -- fat and fluffy and full of energy. Now, he's 12. He's just a little old man, who wants to take naps and fart and lick what's left of his boy parts. He's got weak hips, he can't see or hear very well, and he snores louder than my husband (which is a significant achievement, let me tell you). But, he's also pretty cheerful. Still wags his tail and engages with the family and looks forward to his meals...An optimist, just like me. Still, I know that the day is coming in the fairly near future, when it will be time to say goodbye. What I learned, yesterday, is that I am no way near being emotionally prepared for that to happen!

When I got home from work and picking up the kids and running errands (the usual craziness) around 4:30, I found my old dog, Cosmo, staggering around the room, falling over, his head tilted crazily to one side, and his eyes literally rolling around in his head. Did I handle this with any sort of grace under pressure? Hell no! I started bawling my eyes out. I called the vet, bawling, put Cosmo and the kids in the van, bawling (me, not the kids), sat in the waiting room, bawling, with Cos wrapped up in a blanket on my lap, his eyes still rolling crazily around in his head, his whole body shaking...it was horrible. The one bright spot was that my little boys were AWESOME! I told them I was crying because Cosmo is sick, and that I'm very worried about him. They took it in stride. They played with the toys in the vet's office, and they'd come over from time-to-time to pat Cos on the head or give me a hug. They were fantastic! Great little guys to have with you in a crisis, I guess.

Finally, we get called back into an examination room. In walks the doc., and he's the very same vet that saw Cosmo on the day I brought him in for his first puppy check-up. It was even the same exam room. This set me off into more bawling. And, you know how some women cry and still somehow manage to do it prettily? Their eyes turn into liquid pools, they get those big, fat tears that just roll perfectly down their faces, and they somehow just look fragile and kind've beautiful at the same time, like a lost puppy? Yeah. That's not me. This was full-on, ugly crying. There was heaving, there was snot, there was blotchiness...It was, in no way, pretty.

So, the doc. gets down on the floor with us and takes a look, as I sob and sniff. Then, he looks up at me and says, "This is actually quite common in dogs over 12 years old. It's called ideopathic vestibulitis." (Or something like that) To which I reply, "Does this mean (sob) that today (sniff, sob, snort) is his last day?" When he told me it wasn't going to be his last day, and that he would actually get over it in 10 days just by taking Benadryl twice a day, I cried even harder from the relief. The vet actually took my boys out of the room for a few minutes, got them each one of those big, fat, plastic medicine syringes,and then showed them how to turn them into water squirters. Need I say that this is a man who also has kids? He knew what needed to be done. Thank goodness for other parents, eh? Where would we be without them?

Anyway, in spite of the diagnosis, I was just completely undone by the experience. Truly. Un. Done. It was just too much. I pretty much cried off and on that entire night. I'm still exhausted from it, and that was 3 days ago. Clearly, I am not emotionally ready for the loss of my little old dog. And, clearly, my stress levels are a bit high right now.

So, listen up, Universe...Enough already!

I'm going to bed now...

Cheers!

Zits? Are you kidding me?!!!

2010-05-12T14:33:00.000-07:00

So, tomorrow is my (gulp) 42nd birthday. FORTY - FRIGGIN - TWO! I'm not one of those people who freaks out about birthdays, either. I feel really lucky to have survived this many years, mostly in one piece, and with a lot of (mostly) great memories and experiences. Still, entering the 40's, on the whole, has been a bit of a shock to my system...

For example, I never expected to be dealing with menopausal symptoms at such a relatively young age. Night sweats, insomnia, hormonal mood swings, decreased libido, the whole lot...(Thanks, Mom. My doctor tells me I have your genes to blame for such an early onset. Sigh...)

I also never expected that, along with these other lovely symptoms of aging, I would suddenly be experiencing outbreaks of acne to rival the outbreaks of the middle school kids with whom I work. Acne? At 42? Are you kidding me?!!! Is there no justice in the world?!!!

Oh, and throw in wrinkles there, too, will ya? I'm not just talking those crinkly crows' feet you get around your eyes from smiling, either. Oh no...Now I've got all those other "expression lines" as well. The deep forehead wrinkles, the lines around the mouth, etc., etc. Wrinkles AND acne at the same time? How is that fair?

Gravity. Gravity apparently decides to really kick in when you're in your 40's. All kinds of things start to head south....Makes you really start to work on positive thinking and loving yourself for "who you are" instead of "what you look like". Why? Because you have no choice, unless you're a fabulously wealthy movie star, who can afford to take frightening (and frighteningly expensive) steps to defy all that gravity.

Other shocks have occurred as well. Like many, many other people in our country, I never imagined that, with college educations and good jobs, between the ages of 40 and 42, my family would experience two layoffs and not be sure how we would make ends meet. I thought we'd be putting away a little money toward college funds for the boys, maybe saving for a trip to Disneyland...Not quite how things have turned out. (And, for that, George Dubya and company, I'd like to say "Thanks a lot!")

I also didn't imagine myself having major surgery not once, but, after two weeks from today, TWICE! I didn't think this body would be falling apart quite so soon...

On the other hand, my 40's have also brought me:

Countless hugs, kisses, tickle-fights, and surprises from my two little boys.
Shared challenges that have brought my husband and I closer than ever before.
Great moments at work that reinforce my belief that I was born to be a middle school counselor.
Precious time spent with my Mom and Dad.
A do-it-yourself kitchen remodel that I will never forget!
New, wonderful, strong, passionate, intelligent, hilarious female friends.
More laughter and chaos than I could ever imagine!

So, 42...bring. it. on.

Cheers!

A visit to the lovely state of...denial!

2010-05-06T20:32:00.000-07:00

I'm a counselor, so I know that denial can be a bad thing. You have to get past denial to really deal with your issues, right? Well, I also firmly believe that it can sometimes be therapeutic to live in denial for a bit. So, that's where hubby and I have been living for the last couple of days...the state of denial.

Denial of what?

Denial that John is going to be laid off for the second time in three years, because short-sighted people in our community didn't want to approve an incremental tax increase that would save our public transit system. This, I could go on and on and on about, but that's a subject for another time (or for a drunken rant with sympathetic friends)...

Denial that, because of his upcoming layoff, I have to have my (second) ankle surgery a month sooner than originally scheduled, to make sure everything is covered by our health insurance before we lose it to his layoff or to a miraculously-occurring new job that could materialize out of nowhere but might not provide full coverage for the surgery...

Denial that, moving the surgery a month earlier means that I will miss the last 3 weeks of the school year, losing crucial time with students I care deeply about and with friends and co-workers who are moving on to different buildings next year...

Denial that I now have to cram two months' end-of-the-year work into my remaining 3 weeks before surgery, meaning that I have to spend countless hours working my ass off outside of the work day to get it done. Precious hours I should be spending having active fun with my boys before I'm back on crutches and in excrutiating pain...again. (Did I mention this is Round Two of the ankle surgery merry-go-round???)

Denial that we've only just started to rebuild our finances from the first layoff, and now we're going backwards once again...

Now, here's the thing about denial...It can be hard to fully embrace denial, when you're surrounded by all of the regular, everyday pieces of your deteriorating life, right?

So, we left town.

Took care of some pre-surgery stuff, first, and then headed down south to blow money we no longer have on two wonderful days spent in Nirvana (more commonly known as Great Wolf Lodge -- the world's coolest indoor water park). We played and played and played some more in our climate-controlled oasis, while the weather raged outside and the rest of the world went on with their everyday lives. We drank wine, stayed up too late, ate Fruit Loops with the kids, laughed our heads off, and enjoyed every second of it. (OK, there was the one time on the family raft ride, where the raft got turned around so I was facing backwards. Never a good thing, when you're prone to motion sickness. It took me 20 minutes of peaceful floating in the wave pool before my stomach stopped churning...I know, I know. Poor little me, right? Forced to endure peaceful floating. Life is rough.)

Anyway, our visit to Denial Land had to end. And, boy, did it end with a bang. First, there was the 11-car pile-up on the way home. Thankfully, we weren't caught in the accident, just the aftermath. Still, it added 2 hours to the trip home. (We knew it couldn't be good when 5 tow trucks drove by on the side of the highway. Luckily, no one was killed or even seriously injured, according to the news that night.)

Then, there was the first day back at work after being gone. Brutal. I could work 24 hours a day until surgery day, and I still wouldn't get it all done. This was followed by the usual mad dash to pick up both little boys, followed by about 4 more hours of work at home, as the boys said things like "MOMMY! Why are you doing so much work? Play with us!" "Yeah, Mommy. How come you're not playing with us?"

Then, there was my ultrasound yesterday. Trying to figure out some "girlie issues" that are going on, including cysts on one of my ovaries. Anyway...too much information. But, picture this, if you can. I'm wearing only my sweatshirt and socks, a hospital gown wrapped around my waist. My (thankfully female) ultrasound technician has finished the exterior portion of the ultrasound and moved on to the interior portion of the exam (if you know what I mean). I'm cringing and bearing it, because, what choice do I have, right? Then the fire alarm goes off. I'm not kidding. Fire - friggin' - alarm. I looked at her and said, "I don't care what you say, I'm not going out there without my pants on."

As if that wasn't enough of a re-entry to reality... This morning, I was dropping little Foster off in his pre-school class, chatting with the teacher about his latest behavioral issues, when one of the front desk ladies came in with a worried look on her face and said, "Beth, there's something I have to tell you. The landscaper who was mowing the lawn by the parking lot just accidentally broke one of the windows on your van."

Oh, yes. 10 minutes before I'm supposed to be at work across town...Front passenger side window --totally shattered!

As for any leftover "zen" feelings from our trip to the state of denial? Also totally shattered. Sigh.

Cheers!

There's no place like...bed!

2010-04-30T14:55:00.000-07:00

This entire blog is an homage to my bed. My big, fat, fluffy, warm, cozy, wonderful bed. I LOVE MY BED!

Here's a brief history: About 6 years ago, my in-laws were downsizing to a smaller place, so they wanted to give us the king size bed frame they had in storage. My response to this offer? "Sweetie, we don't NEED a king size bed. It's too much bed for us. It'll be expensive to buy a mattress set, and a king size bed is HUGE! We really, really don't need it. Tell your parents we don't want the bed frame. Seriously, John. Tell them. I don't want a king size bed." Flash forward a few weeks, and I am at the mattress store with hubby, picking out a king size mattress set (Ka-ching!) and grumbling about it the entire time. "Grumble, grumble, don't need a bed this big, whine, whine, complain, can't afford it, grumble, grumble, stupid giant bed, mumble, mumble..."

Flash forward to the present. My king size bed is now my absolute favorite place in my house. Why? I'll tell you why...

It's huge! Huge enough for me, hubby, and both of my boys to climb in all together for a family tickle fight or a marathon of weekend morning cartoons, or family story time. And, nobody is hanging off the sides complaining 'cuz his leg is sticking out of the bed or he's about to fall off. We all fit. All four of us. Beautifully, and with room to spare.

I can sleep spread out like a starfish, if I want to. And, I want to. Oh, yes. I want to. Aaaaaahhhh...

Now, I was worried that hubby and I wouldn't snuggle anymore, with such a huge bed. Not a problem. It's just that I can have the snuggly part first and move to sleeping spread out like a starfish later. It's perfect!

If you're fighting with your bed partner, a gigantic bed comes in handy too. You know the old saying, "Never go to bed mad."? Well, now that I have a king size bed, I'm pretty sure that saying was made up by somebody who had a much smaller bed. Somebody who knew she was going to have to come into physical contact with her partner, even if she didn't want to. So, along comes that old saying. What it really means, I'm now convinced, is this: "Never go to bed mad, because you know at some point your foot is going to touch your partner's foot, and you don't want to end up kicking the crap out of him for being the idiot that he has been today." And, the second part of it should be: "Unless you have a king size bed. If you have a king size bed, feel free to go to bed furious with your partner, because you have enough room in your bed that you won't have to come into contact at all. And, frankly, sometimes it feels really good to go to bed mad, doesn' it? So, go for it, all you king size bed owners!"

The size of this masterpiece also means that when a little boy crawls into bed at 3am after having a nightmare, I have plenty of room to maneuver, so that I can snuggle him without the risk of getting kicked in the shins or knocked in the solar plexus as he wiggles around in his sleep. No more middle-of-the-night elbows to the chin for me. Woo hoo!

Ah, my bed.

Cheers!

Still pooping? Still? Really? STILL pooping?

2010-04-28T18:56:00.000-07:00

I am the Mom you see lurking outside her child's potty stall in the public bathrooms, pacing back and forth and, every minute or so, asking, "Foster? Honey, aren't you done yet? Do you need some help or something?" And, why, you may ask, do I do this? Because my 4 1/2 year old son takes longer to poop than anyone I've ever met!!! (Even longer than my husband, and, let me tell you, hubby dearest can disappear into the bathroom with a book and not be seen again for what seems like hours...)

I don't know what it is with this little kiddo of mine, but he insists that he has to go "RIGHT NOW, MOMMY! I have to poop RIGHT NOW! I CAN'T HOLD IT!!!!" This prompts a mad dash to the nearest restroom. Then, what happens once he's perched up there on the seat? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For a very long time. All the while, my little guy is insisting that he is, in fact, pooping. He seems to be happy as a clam, just sitting up there, singing a little song or whistling a little tune, waiting (endlessly) for the poop to arrive. Meanwhile, I'm apologizing to all the ladies who are waiting to use the stall... "Sorry, my little guy is in there." "Yeah, he takes a long time." "I'm so sorry. You can't rush these things, you know." "He's only four."

Today, after SEVENTEEN MINUTES in the stall at the playground, Foster finally came out. I was totally flustered by that time, because several Moms had already come and gone with their little ones, and I was starting to imagine glares directed at the back of my head, as more and more people were forced to rotate through the one remaining free stall..."Fos," I asked. "Why does it take you so long to poop?"

His answer:
"Because you keep interrupting me to ask me if I'm done yet."

Sigh.

Cheers!

I want to be like George!

2010-04-25T20:06:00.000-07:00

Do you ever actually sit down and watch Curious George with your kids? I do. Almost every single time it's on. I can't resist. Seriously. Usually, if the 'toons are going on, it's because I have to make dinner or do seventeen loads of laundry or, I'll admit it, just lie down on my bed for a brief sanity break, without my boys attempting to dismember one another. That's when I use "T.V. Nanny" to occupy their time and ensure a respite from the usual chaos. (By the way, now that I actually have two little rugrats of my own, I think the people that write those books saying, sanctimoniously, "Never use the television as a babysitter!" have either never had children, or have live-in human nannies to watch over their children while they go about the business of keeping a household running.) Anyway, when Curious George comes on, I'm literally helpless to resist. I hear that catchy tune, and I'm right there on the couch with my boys, eagerly awaiting George's next adventure. I'm pretty sure I like it even more than the boys do...

Why am I so mesmerized by Curious George? I'll tell you why in two words: Optimism and enthusiasm. Not mine. His. Have you ever seen another T.V. character who has more optimism and enthusiasm than George? Betcha haven't. This little guy approaches every single thing in his life with the attitude that it's all going to be OK. Not just OK, actually, but also a lot of fun. And, if it turns out not to be much fun, afterall, he somehow finds a way to be happy about it, anyway. And, George is enthusiastic about absolutely everything. The tiniest little discovery or the smallest reward sends him into a frenzy of hand-clapping and "ooh-ooh, aah-aah's" and jumping up and down. He's awesome. Yes, I know he's only a cartoon, but he's still awesome.

I want to be like George.

Cheers!

It might seem silly, but it's STILL a milestone for us.

2010-04-04T20:21:00.000-07:00

I am writing this on Easter. Not being religious folks, Easter, for our little family, is all about coloring eggs, the bunny, the egg hunt, and yet another excuse to eat as much sugar as we want. All. Day. Long. And, since John currently has Sundays off from work, we actually got to spend the holiday together as a family. Woo hoo!

Our Easter began at 5:45am., when the giggling, loud whispering, and pitter-patter footsteps of excited little boys began. Followed immediately by parental groaning, whining, and exclamations along the lines of: "Pleeaaaasseeeee....Make them go back to sleep!" "It's too early to start Easter!" "It's your turn to make the coffee." "No, it's not." "Yes, it is. I made it last time." "But, I let the dogs out." "It's still your turn." "Ugh!"

So, it began...We ate our first jellybeans and malted milk balls around 6:30am. (They go surprisingly well with coffee, as a matter of fact.) It's now 7:30pm, and it's been pretty much constant candy consumption all day. Well, breakfast was officially pancakes, smothered in syrup. Healthy! Oh, and there was McDonalds for lunch. And, milkshakes at Sonic Burger. And, we stopped off for Mexican food on the way home. I can, literally, feel my arteries hardening right now. And, we probably stunted our children's growth or something, too...I promise, this is not the way we usually eat. But, it's Easter!

I digress, as usual. (This time, I'll blame it on the enormous quantities of high-fructose corn syrup I ingested today.) The whole point of this is that, today, we did something with our boys that we have never, ever, ever done before, and it was, in the immortal words of Dash, from 'The Incredibles'...Totally wicked!!!" We took the boys to their very first movie in an actual movie theater. Yep. A real movie theater. This was a very big deal for us. And, not only was it their first time in a movie theater, it was a 3-D movie! Could it be any more exciting??? We took them to see, "How to Train Your Dragon", and it was, seriously, one of the best times I've ever had at a movie in my life. I was so excited for them, I could hardly stand it. I was definitely more excited than they were, but, then again, I have always loved going to the movies, especially back when hubby and I actually went on dates. Six years ago. Right before Spencer was born. Followed almost exactly one year later by Foster. Sigh.

Anyway, John and I sat together in the middle, with one little boy on each end, perched on a booster seat, oversized 3-D glasses balanced on their little noses. (So cute!) Of course, we had coached them at home, and in the car, and while waiting in line for tickets, about not talking, going pee right before the movie starts, not kicking the seat in front of you, etc., etc...Still, you're never really sure how things are going to go, until you're in the moment, right? I was worried the movie would be way too loud, or they'd freak out at the size of the screen, or somebody would have to take one of their momentously-long poops right in the middle or something...But, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. They were riveted! And, the 3-D thing was really cool. (Man, the effects have come a long, long way since the last time I saw a 3-D movie. Amazing! And, that tells you how long it's been since we saw a movie in the theater...Avatar? Nope, haven't seen it. Heard it's really good. Sob.) Anyhoo, things got going, and Foster immediately took his glasses off, looked at the screen, then put the glasses back on and exclaimed, "Hey! There's things coming right out of the movie into the air!" Spencer's mouth just opened wide, his hands sort of floated up into the air, and he whispered, "Awesome!"

The whole experience was so much fun. Holding my sweetie's hand, snuggling Spencer on my lap (the booster seat didn't last long for him), and experiencing a really positive, joyful, exciting family movie, with all of my boys together, for the very first time. To quote my son...."Awesome!"

Of course, after sitting still and silent for that long, we had to spend the next 2 hours running around at a park burning off some of that stored-up little-boy energy. And, of course we needed some more sugar. And Mexican food. Seriously. Who wants to go home and cook after such a momentous day, right?

A great day. A great "first". I will remember it always.

Cheers!

Important questions about little boys (and some other stuff)...

2010-04-03T09:27:00.000-07:00

So, the deal around here is that hubby never knows what his work shift is going to be until 6:30 the night before. AND, once he's been given a shift, it can change at a moment's notice. Fun, fun, fun!!! What this means for this Mommy is that I can't plan anything other than playdates, since I never know if hubby is going to be available to be the Parent-In-Charge. No plans. Ever. (And, as a control-freak planner, this has been seriously life-altering for me!)

"Hey, Beth. Wanna come out for girls' night next Saturday?" "I'll let you know at 6:30 the night before."

"Hey, Beth. We're going to try to get tickets for a concert next month. Do you want in on it?" "Um....I won't know if I can go until 6:30 the night before."

"We're all going to see a chickflick Friday night. Can you come?" "I'll let you know at 6:30 Thursday night."

You get the picture...Actually, most people who know me just don't even bother to ask anymore, which is a mixed bag. I don't have to say, "I"ll let you know at 6:30 the night before." for the millionth time, but it's also kind of isolating. On the flip side, my boys are seriously bonded with me, because we have so much time together. So, so, so much time...sigh.

But, even with such a psycho schedule, there are ways around it. Like, inviting girlfriends to come over to my place for wine after the kids go to bed. Hubby might show up, he might not. But, as long as it's at my house, I can have some semblance of a social life. (In the summertime, when my porch swing is up, I call this little event, "Swinging Saturdays", because we sit around on the porch swing sipping, laughing, noshing, and basically having a lovely time, while the boys snooze away inside.)

That was a long, long introduction that really has nothing much to do with the topic of this blog. But, I'm sleep-deprived, a teeny bit hungover, and feeling kinda rambly... So, deal with it. Here's the situation. Last night, one of my girlfriends came over for the aforementioned "wine night". (Not only that, she brought the wine and snacks with her. How great is that? Thanks, girl!) Anyway, this particular friend is a stay-at-home mother of two boys, so, as usual, after we talked about husbands, neighbors, my work stuff, politics, the state of the world, blah, blah, blah, the subject turned to our little rays of sunshine. In particular, the fact that my little angels have been arguing nonstop about everything under the sun for the last three days, driving me slowly but surely toward a nervous breakdown, and I'm about ready to give them up for adoption!

"I know, I know," said my friend. And then, she asked the question that prompted this blog:
"What is it with little boys? How come they can't wash their hands in the sink together without fighting, but they will happily pee into the same toilet at the same time?" Bwaaa haaa haaaa... SO TRUE!

This question got me thinking. So, to fill up last night's particular bout of insomnia, I found myself asking a lot of important questions about my boys. I thought I'd jot a few of them down, so I can laugh about them later, when my little darlings are past this stage (they are going to get past this stage, right?).

How come my little boys can wake up at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning and start out their day playing with Legos or their stuffed animals or something, giggling and getting along famously, but the very second I rally myself to get up and truly start the day (Translation: make a huge pot of incredibly strong coffee), they start throwing blocks, fighting over their toys, and saying things like, "MOOOOOMMMMYYYYY...Spence took my toy, and I wasn't done with it!" or "MOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYY....Fos pulled the arm off my robot!!!" or "MOOOMMMMMYYYYYY...Foster said there are no such things as aliens. He's lying!" "No, I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "No, I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "NO, I'M NOT!" "MOOOOMMMMYYYYYYYY!!!!" ?

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Why is it that it takes half-an-hour of scrubbing in the tub to get two wiggly little boys clean, but it takes less than 2 minutes for them to completely cover themselves with: a) dirt, b) ink/paint/glue, c) food, d) anything remotely sticky? (And, since we colored Easter eggs last night, I can add a new category: e) egg dye.)

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How is it possible that both of my boys can't seem to hear me when I stand in front of them and ask them to pick up their toys, or put their dirty clothes in the hamper, or let out the dogs, but they always, always, always hear me when I mutter a bad word under my breath in the next room?

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Why can the boys spend 3 hours at our favorite playground, playing pirates and aliens and Star Wars like the best buddies in the entire world, sharing their snacks, laughing as they run away from all the little girls, and having a fantastic time together, but as soon as we get in the car to drive home, they start poking eachother, making faces at eachother, calling each other names, and tattling to me about it the entire time?

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How come my boys can spend the day breaking every rule in the house, picking at eachother, talking back to me, and generally driving me up the wall, and then be perfectly behaved little angels when they go to a playdate at someone else's house?...

"Oh, we just love having Spencer over to our house. He's SO good about sharing toys!"
"Ummmm, are you sure you're talking about the right kid?" (The one who just threw a major temper tantrum in our living room, because he didn't want to share the monster blocks with his brother?"

"Foster is so sweet and helpful. He is just a joy to have around."
"MY Foster?" (The one who just yelled "NO!" at me, when I asked him to put away his markers?)

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Why is it my boys can start whining for food an hour before dinner time, then hang around my legs saying things like, "Mommy, pleeeeaase make some food. I'm sooooo hungry!" "Mommy, you're starving me!" Or, my particular favorite from the other day, "Mommy, I'm famished. That means I'm really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really hungry!" "When's dinner?" "Is it dinner time yet?" "Is dinner ready?

BUT...

The minute I call out, "Dinner's ready. Go wash your hands!", they're nowhere to be found. Then, after all the whining, complaining, begging, etc., I have to holler out "Dinner's ready!" seventeen more times before they come to the table? (By the way, this appears to be something that afflicts adult males as well. But, questions about why adult men do the things they do, is a topic for a whole different blog. Or, maybe an entire book...)

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Finally, why is it, at the end of a long, hard, day -- no matter how irritated, angry, frustrated, exhausted, or fed-up I am feeling, my boys can snuggle up to me as I tuck them in, throw their little arms around my neck, kiss me sloppily, and say, "Mommy, I love you more than you love me!" or (in Spencer's case) "I love you just as much as you love me, Mommy!", and all is forgiven?

At least until we start another day...

Cheers!

Hakuna Mutata!

2010-03-24T20:41:00.000-07:00

I was in a crappy mood this morning. Just in a funk...feeling sorry for myself and the world...y'know what I mean? Negativity is not my natural state, but I've got some friends going through some hard times, we've still got John's looming potential layoff, and I haven't slept well in a few nights. So, I was just doing some mental wallowing...Then, as I rushed across town in the daily mad dash to get Foster to preschool, I heard his little voice: "Hey, Mommy. Can you put in the Disney CD? I want to hear that Lion King song! Pleeeeaaaassseeeeee...." Well, since anything would be an improvement over hearing the theme song from Speed Racer for the thousandth time, I was happy to oblige my little guy.

It was then I discovered, that no matter how rotten your mood, it's impossible to think negative thoughts while listening to "Hakuna Mutata". Seriously. Especially when you've got an enthusiastic 4-year old singing along at the absolute top of his lungs. It was great! And, it didn't hurt that a few minutes later, I found myself whistling away to "Bare Necessities" from Jungle Book. Talk about a mental reset. Who knew that a couple of well-written Disney songs could turn your day around, eh? Thank you, Disney. And, thank you, my little Foster. Somehow, you knew exactly what I needed this morning. And, it worked like a charm.
I love you!

Cheers!

Our kids will read about this in their history books!

2010-03-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

Nah, this one's not about parenting. It's about politics...

Knowing my kids will read this one day, I must say something about the historic healthcare legislation that just passed. I was glued to the T.V. last night, watching as Democrats and Republicans contradicted one another, called one another liars, spouted opposing "facts", insisted they were each representing "the American people", and generally acted like rude, petulant toddlers, angry because they didn't want to share the sandbox. I was, by turns, disgusted, excited, depressed, bored, flabbergasted, and, ultimately, relieved and elated that the legislation passed. Because, while I find the behavior of many members of our U.S. Congress to be immature, self-serving, and reprehensible, I still want everyone in our country to have quality healthcare, and I think it's ridiculous to stay with the status quo and cross our fingers that everything will somehow work out all by itself. And, so, in spite of my loathing of this contentious, ugly, abhorrent, political process, I am celebrating and savoring this as the awesome, history-making moment it is.

I want my boys to know what a momentous thing just occurred, and I want them to know that they have parents who supported it from the start. Parents who took the time to educate themselves about the healthcare legislation, rather than to just blindly believe the rancorous commercials that bombarded us every time we turned on the T.V. Parents who are willing to pay a little more in taxes or premiums, if it will mean that 95% of the people in our country will get healthcare. Parents who think it only makes sense to require people to carry health insurance, just like we require them to carry car insurance, so that the rest of us aren't paying for people to use the emergency room when they should be using a regular doctor. Parents who whole-heartedly believe in a system that stresses preventive care, personal responsibility, and patients over profits. Parents who believe that every individual, regardless of culture, race, gender, sexual orientation, religious belief, or socioeconomic status, deserves to be treated with dignity and respect, and to be afforded the same rights as the rest of us, including quality health care when they need it. Parents who believe we should stop thinking only of ourselves and our own little demographic group, and should work together, as a community of Americans, to make sure "equality" actually means something in this country. Finally, parents who proudly support our intelligent, thoughtful, courageous President Obama, who clearly feels the same way, and who is willing to fight for all of us, even if it puts him in political peril.

History was made today. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't painless. It wasn't perfect. But, it was made. And, I'm very glad I was able to witness it.

Cheers!

Not my most shining moment as a Mom...

2010-03-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

This has not exactly been my best day as a mother. Not by a long shot...

This morning, hubby was actually available to take my little guy, Foster, to pre-school. So, I was giving him hugs and kisses in the back seat of Daddy's truck. It came time to close the door, so I said, "Fos, get your hands inside." (You can see where this is going, right?) He pulled in his hands, so I slammed shut the door. Unfortunately, my cutie pie had chosen that exact moment to blow me a kiss, so his fingers got smushed when the door slammed shut. Worse yet, I didn't even know. I just kept on walking back up to the porch, happy as a clam. Suddenly, hubby jumps out of the truck and runs around to Foster's side, flings open the door, and that's when I finally hear the screams of pain. Oh, the guilt. Oh, the shame. My poor little guy looks up at me with his big, blue eyes, tears coursing down his cheeks, and says, "Why did you slam my fingers in the door, Mommy? Why did you do that?" Gulp.

That was just the first Mommy mistake of the day...

This afternoon, my big guy, Spencer, was invited to a playdate at a buddy's house. "Bring his bike!" says the other mom. So, I dutifully brought the bike around to the back of the van to load it up. But, the van was locked. (I have a feeling you know where this is going too, eh?) I ran back inside to get the keys, loaded Spence, his bike helmet, his groovy biking gloves, and his 3 favorite stuffed animals into the car. Then, I proceeded to back out of the driveway right over the top of the bike. Oh, yeah. Smashed to hell. I didn't even know a bike wheel could look like that. Sigh. So, Spence looks up at me with his big, hazel eyes, trying hard not to cry, and says, "Mommy! Why did you run over my bike?" Gulp again.

Mother-of-the-Year, that's me. Not! Luckily, these boys have yet to figure out how much they could milk my "Mommy Guilt" today. I'd be putty in their grubby little hands...

Cheers!

It's St. Patrick's Day?

2010-03-17T20:06:00.000-07:00

I used to get all excited about St. Patrick's Day. I used to pick out a green shirt and dig out my shamrock earrings. I used to wait in line at Kel's forever, just so I could go inside with my buddies, drink huge quantities of beer, and act out the "The Unicorn Song" with all the other drunken merry-makers. I used to kiss strange men who were wearing buttons that said, "Kiss me, I'm Irish" while my girlfriends cheered me on. Ahhhhh....those were the days.

This morning, hubby had to remind me it was St. Patrick's Day, so I'd wear something green to work.

Sigh.

Times sure have changed.

Happy St. Patty's Day to you all. Cheers!

Wow, what a gig!

2010-03-12T13:25:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 5:00am this morning, for no particular reason, so I turned on the TV and started channel surfing the news stations, trying to catch the two minutes of actual news they squeeze in between endless weather reports and traffic updates. (Side note: I don't really need the perky meteorologists to show me the doppler radar images of the fronts moving in, followed by the expensive computer graphics of falling rain, swirling wind, and "convergence zones". I just want to know what the weather's supposed to be like over the next few days. Just that. Just give me that 5-day forecast graphic that shows me what's going to happen. Then move on to the real news, OK?) Anyway, one of the top stories is that our state legislature couldn't manage to come up with a budget and tax proposal in their 60 allotted days before the session ended. So, at a cost of $18,000/day to the Washington state taxpayer, they are extending the session another 7 days.

This made me think about what an awesome gig legislators have. (I'm thinking all the way up to Congress here.) In what other profession would you be given a deadline to finish your project, but then paid, anyway, even if you didn't do your job? Really, if you think about it, what possible incentive do legislators have to get the job done in a timely manner? They're getting paid, regardless of whether or not they do their job. Think about how long Congress has been fighting each other, over everything from health care legislation to financial reform, clearly doing everything BUT working to help the people who voted them into office? We elected them to represent our needs and to make the lives of Americans better, right? Why should they do that? There is no real consequence for not getting the job done. They still collect their hefty paychecks and receive their great benefits. What a gig!

Where can I get a job like that?

Cheers!

I'm not wimpy, but there are only so many bugs a girl can handle!

2010-03-05T14:52:00.000-08:00

I've always been a bit of a tomboy, pretty rough and tumble, always in motion, not afraid to get a little dirty, y'know? That's why, for the most part, being a mother of boys fits me like a glove. (I'd be lost if I had to do tea parties and braid hair and play with dolls, as so many little girls seem drawn to...I realize I'm stereotyping here, so I apologize. I know that little girls have diverse interests too. Believe me, I know. When I was younger, I used to stampede over my sister's Barbie Dolls with my Breyer horses or stage kidnappings by G.I. Joe. Barb, if you're reading this...Yeah, it was me. Sorry.) Anyway, I can put up with a lot of noise, dirt, action, and really gross things.

But, today was a bit much...

I was planting some bulbs in our front yard, while my 4-year old climbed in and around our neighbor's tree right across the street. (Thank goodness for neighbors who love little boys and recognize that a tree like that is just BEGGING to be played in. Teri and Leo, you rock!) Anyway, it was time to come inside, so I hollered for Foster to come on in.

"But, Mommy, I found some roly poly bugs. Come see. Quick! Come see. It's so cool."

So, I walked across the street to check out his latest find, as he danced around in excitement. As I got closer, I could see that his little fist was closed, but his skin seemed to be shifting and moving...I got closer, and that's when I realized that he had about 30 roly poly bugs in his hand, climbing out between his fingers, climbing up his wrist, and dropping to the ground. I've never seen so many roly poly bugs in one place, before, let alone crawling all over my child, as he stood there grinning from ear to ear.

I'm very proud to say that I remained completely calm, even though my own skin was crawling, my stomach was flip-flopping, and it took everything I had not to grab him by his feet, turn him upside down, and start shaking the bugs off.

"Hey, sweetie, before we go home, let's just make sure all the roly poly's are back on the ground, OK? We wouldn't want one to accidentally come into the house. They don't like to live in houses. Can you just shake your hand a little bit, so they can all go back to their tree? Yeah, just like that. Ooh, you missed a few. Maybe shake just a little bit harder. Like that. Get that one that's climbing up to your shoulder. Whoops, a few more, there. Good job. Just a few more. OK, great!" (Shudder!)

You have to admit, having kids certainly brings new experiences into your life, eh?

Cheers!

Branch vs. Eyeball? The branch won.

2010-02-24T15:51:00.000-08:00

So, things got a little crazy this Sunday. I know what you're thinking, if you've visited my blog before...You're thinking, "Isn't life ALWAYS crazy in that household?" You have a point. However, this was even crazier than usual...There I was, working alongside hubby, adding extra boards to the fence between our yard and the yard of our insane neighbor with the horrible, aggressive dogs, in order to block any spaces that those horrible, aggressive dogs can see through. As I was working, I kept feeling these waves of vertigo and dizziness. But, since I was bending down to pound in nails and pick up boards and all that, I thought it was most likely just dizziness from standing up too fast. So, being me, I just kept right on working... Until, I got hit by a wave of dizziness so strong, that I staggered against the fence and took a tree branch to the eye. My neighbor's tree, by the way. Think I could sue??? Anyway -- Blinding pain!!! But, did I go inside to see what damage had been done? Of course not. That's what sane people do. Nope, I sat down on the steps until it didn't hurt quite so badly, then I went back to work on the fence...(Yes, the words "dumb ass" come to mind.) Anyway, the vertigo got worse, so I finally just lay down on the deck. Hubby suggested I go lie down in a bed, instead, so I headed that way. On the way, I took a look at my eye. Blood red, with a big, visible wound right next to the lens of my eye. Not pretty, plus, I was still feeling really dizzy. So, I decided it might be time to hit the walk-in clinic. The boys, who were all excited, because we had told them we'd go swimming, were NOT pleased to be visiting the clinic, instead. Although, my scary red eye freaked them out a bit, so they got the whole concept of Mommy needing to go see a doctor. AND, we promised them elevator rides, which, for my boys, are one of the best things ever.

We arrived at the clinic, and hubby took the boys for their elevator rides, while I got checked out. Doctor took a look at my eye with an extremely bright, intense-pain-inducing light, and told me I had a "Significant scratch and contusion to the cornea of my eye, which could likely result in infection and possible loss of vision." Lovely. Antibiotic eye drops every 4 hours for the next week... Now, here's where things get a little more interesting... This requires a brief look back in time to 2001. In 2001, shortly after getting married, I had a stroke. Just a little one, but terrifying, all the same. My only risk factor was being on birth control pills. Needless to say, I quit them, immediately, and haven't taken them since. I have no lingering effects, but I did talk in a mish-mash of words for a while ("word salad", they call it), which was pretty weird. Anyway, back to the present. The clinic doc. looked long and hard into my ear canals, then did some balance and brain stem tests with me, and declared that I needed to go to the E.R., immediately, because I might be having another stroke. Great!

Here's the silver lining: When a doctor calls ahead to the E.R., and tells them that you are coming in and may be having a stroke, there's no waiting. They had me back in a room so fast, I only had a chance to holler, "John, take the kids home and feed them. I'll call you, when we know more!", as they were rushing me through the doors. One I.V., three blood sticks, and an M.R.I., later... I was pronounced stroke-free. But, this was after 4 hours of lying alone in a room, scared and cold and frankly, freaking out, while the large redneck family on the other side of the curtain cussed and laughed and talked on their cell phones at top volume. Also, the nurses gave me a massive dose of Benadryl in my I.V., and it immediately made me start to slur my words. Since my stroke in 2001 also made me slur my words and spit out sentences that made sense in my brain, but came out of my mouth as gobbledy-gook, this little side effect was terrifying. I kept telling myself it was just the Benadryl, but I couldn't help thinking I was having stroke #2, and I hadn't even had a chance to hug and kiss my family...Not my greatest moments, let me tell ya. But, as it all turns out, I have an inner ear virus, which results in dizziness and vertigo, lasting up to a week. But, it will resolve itself without any treatment at all. So, 5 hours after heading to the walk-in clinic, I was home, dosed up with anti-dizziness medicine and nursing my scary red eye...

I know. I told you it was crazy.

Cheers!

Crazy bus stop Mom, please get your act together!

2010-02-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

Every morning, Monday through Friday, I have to get myself ready for work, one little boy ready for preschool, and one ready for kindergarten. (I somehow manage to do this every day, with surprisingly few meltdowns, actually. But, it's a hassle. No doubt about it.) I have to get everyone fed, dressed, packed for school, out the door, into the car, and then it's a mad dash to the bus stop. As soon as Spencer's kindergarten bus arrives, he hops on, and his little brother and I wave like crazy and blow kisses and make the "I love you" sign until the bus drives away. Then, it's another mad dash to the car to race all the way across town, so I can drop Foster off at preschool. This is followed by a final mad dash all the way to the other end of town, which inevitably includes a breathless run up the stairs, into my office, just in time to start work. (Or, a few minutes late, depending on traffic.) By the way, this entire routine is then done in reverse just a few hours later. Sigh.

Anyway, you can see that this makes for a pretty tight schedule. Every minute counts. Every. Single. One. So, enter into the picture "Crazy Bus Stop Mom." Why do I call her this? Because, when the rest of the moms in the neighborhood are getting their kids ready and making sure that they're at the bus stop on time, I'm pretty sure this lady is either still sleeping or watching early morning T.V. or checking her Facebook page or something...In fact, I'm positive. She and her daughter are not actually at the bus stop regularly (thank goodness!). But, every two or three mornings, as the last kid is stepping onto the bus, or just after the doors have closed, here comes Crazy Mom, racing for the bus, waving her arms, yelling, "Wait, wait. I'm sorry. WAIT!" Sometimes, she's racing down the hill (in her pajamas), crazy hair flying, dragging her daughter behind her...Sometimes, she's careening up in her car (also in pajamas), whipping over to the curb and basically pushing her daughter out the door towards the bus. Poor kid. Once in a while, she comes sauntering down the hill with a cup of coffee in her hand (wearing sweatpants over her pajamas) and manages to arrive just as the bus is pulling in. On the few occasions we've talked, she actually seems like a really nice person. She's personable, she talks about being a stay-at-home-mom, she jokes about how she's always late. Her daughter seems to be well-adjusted and very sweet. But, please, lady, please! For the love of mothers everywhere -- Come on time or don't come at all!!! The rest of us have lives and schedules and places to be. We don't have the three extra minutes it takes for the bus driver to open the door, again, and wait for your daughter to run over to the bus, climb in, and find a seat, before the bus can resume the journey to school. Three extra minutes is a luxury we just don't have!

Please...please...please...be on time.

Cheers!

I AM CAPABLE! I AM COMPETENT! I AM! I REALLY AM!

2010-02-16T16:40:00.000-08:00

I don't think anything has ever made me feel less competent than trying to get my son to eat and drink over the last week. His doctor said, "The most important thing for you to do is to make sure he stays hydrated and is getting food and liquid into his system after his surgery. If you don't, he will have to come back in to the hospital for I.V. fluids." OK, doc. No pressure there. None at all. So, prior to Foster's adenoidectomy/tonsilectomy, I stocked the house with 3 different flavors of ice cream, pudding, yogurt, cottage cheese, applesauce, juice, and boxes of macaroni and cheese. I mean, I was really ready. I didn't care if he ate nothing but milkshakes. There was no friggin' way MY kid was going to end up back in the hospital. Not my son!

But, here's the thing....A kid in pain doesn't want to eat or drink anything. Not chocolate milkshakes. Not strawberry milkshakes. Not banana smoothies. Not his favorite flavor of pudding in the entire world. Yogurt? Nope. Applesauce? Uh-uh. I did everything but stand on my head to get this kid to eat and drink. And, to give myself credit, he did not have to go back to the hospital. My Herculean efforts paid off, and I managed to get just enough into his little body to avoid that particular trip. But, he lost 5 pounds, and he was only 40 pounds to begin with. And, I'm pretty sure I aged at least 5 years over the last 7 days. Yup. There are definitely some new stress lines. For sure.

Then, today, I went back to work. Ahhhhhh, my work. The one place where I feel like I know what the hell I'm doing. I love my kids. I adore my kids. I love being a Mommy more than anything. But, my work reminds me that I'm actually a capable, competent, trained professional, instead of someone just careening through life at a breakneck pace, crossing my fingers, and winging it from day-to-day... My first student today? CPS case. No problem. I knew exactly what to do to support her. Then, I spent 4 periods talking with 8th graders about sex and sexual harassment. No worries. I can field any crazy question an 8th grader throws my way. Nothing phases me. I've got it covered. Helping to plan a somewhat last-minute parent night with my boss? Done!

So, I will fall into bed tonite, completely exhausted, but feeling satisfied. Knowing I was able to start and finish things today. Feeling capable. Feeling competent. Feeling strong.

Until Foster wakes up crying in the middle of the night, and I just start winging it again. Sigh.

Cheers!

Whose voice is that?

2010-02-13T12:57:00.000-08:00

We are now 6 days post-adenoidectomy/tonsilectomy. It's been a week of total hell! And, after being trapped in the house with a thoroughly miserable 4-year old and his frustrated 5-year old brother for the past 6 days, without one full night's sleep, I am so fuzzy-brained and starved for adult companionship and intelligent conversation, that I think my head is literally in danger of sponteneously combusting. Seriously. Watch for it on the news...

But, why this title? Well, his whole life, Foster has been stuffed up. He was basically born with giant adenoids, so he's always been a loud, snarkly mouth breather. (That's the term hubby and I gave to his breathing when we brought him home from the hospital -- "snarkly" just sums it up perfectly.) And, ever since he started babbling away as a toddler, he's had this really cute, nasal little voice. But, over the last two days, the swelling from his surgery has gone down, and, without those enormous adenoids blocking his nasal passages, he now has a completely different voice. I'm not joking. Completely. Different. He sounds nothing like he used to. I would literally not recognize my own child's voice in a crowd of kids right now. It's disconcerting. I look at the little face I love so much and know so well, then he opens up his mouth and some strange little kid's voice comes out.

Who knew?

Parenthood is so weird...

Cheers!

Nothing cuts through a Benadryl haze like the cry of a child in pain...

2010-02-10T16:48:00.000-08:00

How do I know this? Because, two days ago, my baby, my sweet little 4-year old boy, had a tonsilectomy and adenoidectomy, which is commonly known as a "T & A" for short. (I'm not kidding. The nurse told me that's what they call it.) Anyway, last night, after being awake for most of the last 48 hours, I took a Benadryl with my usual nightly glass of cabernet. (An occasional sleep aid, recommended to me by a nurse friend of mine.) I figured, now that we knew Fos was doing OK, I could relax a little bit and try to get some rest, so I could try to approach something close to my normal level of functioning. Worked like a charm! I was completely knocked out by 9:00pm...until just after midnight, that is, when Foster's cry of pain cut straight through the Benadryl haze, and I flew from my bed to my little guy's side, adrenalin pumping through my body. The best alarm clock in the world couldn't have woken me up faster or more thoroughly than that cry...And, the accompanying adrenalin kept me awake the rest of the night. So, back to square one with the whole sleep issue.

As for the surgery...I remember getting my tonsils out as a kid, but it's just a blur of jello and ice cream to me. I don't actually remember the pain. As it turns out, there's a whole lot of it. When they told us that Fos would have to have his adenoids and tonsils out, I just didn't think it was going to be that big of a deal. I mean, I was terrified of my little guy going under anesthesia, and I didn't want him experiencing any level of pain, but I just didn't realize what a long and truly painful ordeal this is. Our ear-nose-throat doctor was great, and he explained it very thoroughly for us. When they cut out adenoids and tonsils, they have to leave the wound open. They can't suture it up, because the area moves around too much and won't hold stitches. So, there's just an exposed wound with raw nerves back there, until it closes up by itself about 6 days after surgery. That's why the pain is so bad, and why it doesn't go away until the wound is completely closed. My poor, poor little guy...

Surgery day:

1) No sleep the night before. Not Foster. Me. I snuggled into bed with him that night, and he said, "Mommy. When Dr. Knops tells me to open my mouth tomorrow, I'm gonna kick him in the head." Then he went off to sleep. I was up most of the night. Tossing, turning, imagining worst-case scenarios...Listening to my husband blissfully snoring. How do men do that?!!

2) When Fos did wake up, at his usual 6:00am, he wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. We had to entertain him as best as we could until we left for the hospital at 7:30. He actually did a pretty good job, but he kept looking up with pitiful eyes and saying, "I'm thirsty, Mommy. I'm hungry, Mommy. Pleeeeease can I have something?" Gulp.

3) About 15 minutes after we arrived, they took us into a special little waiting area. It was a cheerily painted little cubicle with stories, games, and a little red wagon parked in the corner. Fos was doing great. He mentioned kicking Dr. Knops again, this time "in the butt", but he was generally pretty cheerful. He liked changing into his little hospital gown with tigers all over it and the cozy little hospital socks. He thought it was hilarious to have his naked butt cheeks poking out the back, so he did a little dance around the room to show them off. Hubby and I studiously avoided looking into each other's eyes, since we knew that would be a recipe for one, or both, of us to start crying, thinking about the surgery to come...

4) Then came "sleepy juice." That's what they call it. What is it? It's a yummy little sedative that makes kids relaxed and kind've loopy, so they aren't anxious when they go into surgery and aren't even really aware of what's happening. I immediately asked for my own dose, but they turned me down. Foster insisted that the juice wasn't going to make him sleepy, because "I'm never tired!"And, it did take a while. He was sitting on my lap, all wrapped up in a warm blanket, while John read us both a story. Then he started to get heavier and heavier. All of a sudden, one of his arms kind've floated up into the air, and his hand started making slow, grasping movements. We asked him what he was doing, and he said, "Plant. Plant." I realized that he was looking at the seaweed painted onto the wall across the little room, and he was trying to grab it in his drug-induced haze. It was pretty funny. Like something out of a movie about the drug-crazed 1960's or something...

5) The departure. Even writing this, two and a half days later, I'm getting teary eyed thinking about it. The nurse came in to get us. She had me put Foster into the little red wagon, tuck the little stuffed dog Grandma had sent him next to him, and we were allowed to walk with him down the hall a little ways, "just to the red line." We kissed him and said we'd see him soon, then they wheeled him away. We started walking back to the waiting room, and I told myself not to look back, but I couldn't help it. That was probably the worst part. I could see the nurse's back, as she wheeled my baby away in his his little red wagon, and it took everything I had to keep walking toward the waiting room. What I wanted to do was scream, "Don't cut my baby!" and grab him and run...Luckily, John was holding my hand, firmly, in his own. That kept me strong.

6) The wait. John ran across the street to get us some coffee. I forced myself to sit still and try to read an old Reader's Digest magazine until he got back. Then, we just held hands and drank our lattes and waited. And waited. And waited. After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only about an hour, the surgeon came out to get us. He took us into a separate area and told us the surgery had gone really well. He told us how to avoid dehydration, to watch for hemoraghing, and all the after-care information. And, he educated us about all the things that would worry us, if we didn't know they were perfectly normal. Like what? Well, a full week of high fevers, nausea and vomiting, and extremely bad breath -- a result of the dying tissue. (He wasn't kidding about the breath, either. I snuggle my little guy, and his breath is so bad, it actually makes my eyes water. I think I'd prefer to have my ancient old dog, Cosmo, breathing his toxic breath in my face, than Foster breathing his dragon breath all over me. It's really bad. Like he has road kill in his mouth.)

7) The second wait. Once they told us Fos was out of surgery, we had to wait until he came out of the anesthesia before we could see him. There was a special area for this, and the doctor had told us it would only be about 10 minutes. Not too bad. We were close to the swinging doors that led to the surgery area, so we looked up eagerly every time a nurse came through, hoping she was coming for us. Nope. Over and over and over again, nurses came and went, each one glancing at our pleading puppy eyes before going on their merry way. Finally, after about 40 minutes, when I was about to climb the walls, and John was rubbing my shoulders and telling me to relax, a nurse came back and told us that Foster was sleeping peacefully but it was taking him a while to wake up. She said she couldn't stand to see us looking up anxiously every time she came through the doors, so she'd let us come back and wait with him while he slept.

8) The reunion. Finally, there he was. Sleeping with his butt poking up in the air, hooked up to monitors, with his own nurse keeping an eagle eye on his vital signs. He smelled like blood, and there was blood all over the sheet underneath him. A bit of a shocking sight for us, but he looked really peaceful as well. I was so happy just to be next to him. And, when he finally woke up and saw us...it was one of the most glorious moments of my life. Those big, blue eyes opening up and looking right into mine. It was almost like meeting him for the very first time...

So, now we do what we have to do to survive this week. When the pain medicine kicks in, he's almost normal. Pale and a little weak, with huge, dark circles under eyes, but also his usual goofy personality. Then, the medicine starts to wear off, and there's about an hour or so of agonized crying and shaking and clinging, while we try to ease his pain with popsicles and ice water until we can give him his next dose and wait for it to take effect. It's a roller coaster, that's for sure.

But, in the end, when the swelling goes down, my little guy will be able to really breathe through his nose for the very first time in his life. He'll be able to sleep through the night without his own snoring waking him up. He'll have more energy. He'll be a happier, healthier little guy. All the stress will be worth it.

And, his breath will improve. I can hardly wait for that part!

Cheers!

What do you do when your neighbor's a psycho?

2010-02-03T14:47:00.000-08:00

My heart is still totally pounding from what just happened... So, I went out into our big, fenced back yard with my little guys, got them started playing on the swingset and digging in the dirt, etc. Then, I went inside to, you know, take care of business. A few minutes later, I hear the doorbell ringing. So, I do the super-fast wipe & flush that we moms get really, really good at doing, from the moment our kids reach the crawling stage, and I run to the front door. There stands my next door neighbor, with whom we share a fence. His face is red. He's breathing hard. He looks as if his head is going to explode. I say, "Hi Ray, what's wrong?" He yells, "YOUR GODDAMN KIDS WERE THROWING ROCKS OVER THE FENCE AND TEASING MY DOGS! I'M NOT GONNA TAKE THAT!!!" (Now, my boys' behavior was not OK at all, but I just want to point out that these are the very same dogs that have bitten two children in our neighborhood -- one of them being my 5 year old -- and, every time we're out in our backyard, they charge the fence, growling, barking, snarling, and basically making us all miserable. They've got my poor dogs tied into knots, because I won't let my dogs be loud and obnoxious, while their dogs are allowed to just go nuts.These are also the very same dogs that Ray and his wife like to let outside at 6am every morning, and then just allow them to bark nonstop, waking up the entire neighborhood.)

With that said, I really am a very consistent disciplinarian, and I want my kids to be well-behaved, polite little guys. In fact, last weekend, Spencer was practicing hitting balls, and he accidentally hit one over their fence. I made him write an apology note, saying he was sorry he'd hit the ball over the fence, and asking if they would they be willing to toss it back over, if they got the chance. (I've never seen that ball again, by the way.) Anyway, I say to Ray, "I'm very sorry about this. Please come out to the yard with me, and let's talk to the kids. I want them to see how serious you are and have them apologize directly to you, in person." So, he comes out to the yard with me, I call the boys over, and he starts to YELL at them. "WHAT WERE YOU DOING???" Spencer, of course, being completely freaked out by this red-faced, screaming man (and, hello, only 5 years old), says, "Nothing. We didn't do anything!" Ray then yells, "I SAW you! So, now you're a liar. Is that what you are? A little LIAR?" At this point, I step in and ask the boys to apologize for what they did, and to tell Ray that they won't do that anymore. Here's where things get psycho-scary. My boys mumble, "Sorry. We won't do it again." Then, Ray grabs the side of his belt and shouts, "I DON'T CARE WHAT YOUR FOLKS THINK. IF YOU EVER DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT AGAIN, I'M COMING STRAIGHT THROUGH YOUR BACK GATE, AND I'M GOING TO BEAT YOU WITH THIS BELT!" That was enough for me, so I told him that, if he came into our back yard, my husband and I would be calling the police. "GO RIGHT AHEAD!" he yells.

Scary. Seriously. This guy is a bit nuts. I mean, it's not like these are teenagers, who know better and who are deliberately causing chaos and mayhem. They're only 4 and 5, just little boys, learning the ropes. And, this guy has grown sons. Does he not remember how little boys can be? He freaked me out.

Now, I'm waiting anxiously for hubby to get off work. I'm going to ask him to go over and have a "Man-to-Man" with our neighbor. Or, maybe we'll just hide inside our house gripping a baseball bat...

Anybody else ever had anything like this happen?

Ya gotta love teenagers!

2010-02-02T19:36:00.000-08:00

Today's back-handed compliment, delivered by one of my 7th grade students:

"Hey, Mrs.B! You have really cool blue eyes. Except for all the red veins."

Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.

Cheers!

All right, dirt. I admit defeat.

2010-02-01T10:49:00.000-08:00

I give up. The white bathroom rugs and towels hubby and I bought when we first moved into our little house are gone. I finally faced the fact that, while they looked absolutely lovely in our bathroom, and fit into some sort of fantasy I've always had about having thick, white towels like they have at the spa, they simply could not stand up to the copious quantities of dirt dragged in by two filthy little boys and one husband who somehow manages to step OVER our door mat without wiping the mud off his feet. Every time. Seriously. Every time. And it says, right there on the mat in big, black letters, "Wipe Your Paws".

How many times can you wash and bleach white towels and rugs? 897 times! And, no matter how many times you wash them, the minute you hang them back up in the bathroom, sparkling clean, one of your little guys will run in, wash his hands (supposedly), and then dry off on the towel, leaving streaks of dirt from the fingers he missed in the washing process. Sigh.

So, I've decided that white towels and white bathroom rugs are for those times in our lives before we have children and after the children have moved out on their own.

Now, we have nice, thick, dark blue towels and rugs.

Which, I will still have to wash way more often than I'd like. But, at least it won't be quite so obvious when I haven't had a chance to get to it yet.

Cheers!

"Going Zen"

2010-01-29T18:29:00.000-08:00

I'm adopting a new term today. I'm calling it "Going Zen". (Don't laugh. Hey, if Sarah Palin can "Go Rogue", why can't I "Go Zen"?) Anyway, I am in serious need of a little "Zen-ness", so I'm seizing the moment. I know a couple of people who seem to really get the whole "Zen" thing. "Don't worry, be happy" kind of folks. People who seem, miraculously, to be able to just accept life as it comes without staying up all night, consumed by anxiety-driven attacks of insomnia, their minds whirling incessantly, problem-solving every current issue while simultaneously trying to anticipate every possible thing that could still go wrong... These people simply let. it. all. go.

I've decided if they can do it, so can I. So, watch out, I'm "Going Zen!"

My son's upcoming surgery? He's in great hands, I trust his doctors, and he's a sturdy little guy who can handle anything. And, he's going to feel so much better when it's over, that it'll all be worth it. Zen!

The possible layoffs hubby and I are both now facing? Well, we've been through one before, so now we know what to do. We're enterprising and creative. We love each other and our kids. And, my brother said we can come and live with him in Boise, if we have to sell our house and a need a place to stay until we can get back on our feet. Plus, they say that necessity is the mother of invention, right? Maybe new, and better, opportunities will arise for our little family. Zen!

The myriad other worries that make up my daily life as mommy, wife, daughter, friend, and school counselor? Bah! It's all going to work out, one way or another. Zen!

Besides, with all the shocking atrocities and senseless tragedies that are occurring in other parts of the world every day, what am I doing getting all riled up by my own problems? Have a little perspective, girl!

Wow, this "Going Zen" thing is great! I highly recommend it. Especially when accompanied by a glass of wine, which I am going to pour right now.

Cheers!

MY PLANET IS NOT YOUR ASHTRAY!!!

2010-01-27T21:05:00.000-08:00

Lately, I'm noticing that things make me madder than they used to. It's probably the perimenopausal hormonal rushes and insomnia kicking in, but I'm finding that I have far less tolerance for human rudeness and stupidity than at any other time in my life. Or, maybe it's being a parent. Maybe the responsiblity of guiding my two little boys into manhood in a world in which courtesy and common sense seem to be vanishing right along with the polar ice caps has turned me into a short-tempered harpy. Whatever the reason, I'm all fired up. Again. I know. What else is new?

So, what set me off today? Well, if you've been following along for a while, you might guess that it has something to do with political bickering and immaturity in our country. Nope, not this time. The extreme under-funding of education in the U.S., which, I have recently learned, is most likely going to result in me losing my position as a middle school counselor at the end of this year? Not today. That's a blog for another time. And, blog I will...Could it be people who continue to yak on their cellphones while driving, selfishly oblivious to the chaos they are leaving in their wake, as the rest of us attempt to safely navigate the roads while they are cutting us off, swerving into our lanes, or simply sitting at a green light, talking, instead of moving? Uh uh.

Today, I'm taking on smokers. In particular, the man in the car in front of me on my way home from work. The man who apparently thought it was perfectly appropriate to flick his ashes and cigarette butts right out the window of his car as he drove along. No worries. No thoughts about the people around him. No guilt over littering. Unconcerned that his cigarette butts were hitting the window of the car behind him. My window. Just going along his merry way...That man, and other smokers like him. The ones who just don't seem to care about anyone but themselves.

Here's the thing: I'm all for personal freedom. (Except when it comes to guns. Sorry, folks, I stand firmly against that one. Bring it on...I can take it!) If you want to inhale deadly, addictive toxins into your lungs, accepting the life-threatening effects on your health, not to mention disgusting breath, stinking hair, and yellow teeth...by all means, go ahead! But, do it in your own space. Don't breathe your secondhand smoke into my family's oxygen supply. We're not choosing lung cancer. Why should it be OK for you to put us in jeopardy, just because you're choosing that for yourself? And, while we're on the subject of secondhand smoke, don't smoke in your car, when you have kids in that car. Geez, people! This is the computer age. Just Google "secondhand smoke", and you can read all about the effects your secondhand smoke is having on your children. Let's not sugar coat it. You could be killing them. Your own kids. Of course, you won't be around to see it, because you will have died of lung cancer or emphysema or some other horrible smoking-related affliction long before you see the health effects your smoking has had on your own children. And, what is it with smokers, like the man in the car in front of me today, who just throw their ashes and butts right on the ground, as if it isn't littering? Is there some sort of psychological block that happens in their brains? They have no issue polluting their bodies, so they don't mind polluting the planet or the people around them either? Is that what's going on?

I just don't get it. I'm a counselor. I do understand addiction and unhealthy coping mechanisms and all that... And, I know how incredibly difficult it can be to quit something that has such a strong psychological and physiological hold on you. But, I'm not talking about addiction, here. I'm talking about selfishness and discourtesy and flat-out laziness. Because, addicted or not, I know people who are "polite smokers". They smoke in private, in places where they aren't putting others at risk. They have a room in their house that is their "smoking room", and they forbid their children to enter it. They put their ashes and butts into ashtrays (and then into the garbage), instead of throwing them on the ground or out the window of their car. Imagine that! They actually respect the rights of the people around them to breathe air that isn't polluted with smoke and to walk down the street without having to step over cigarette butts.

So, please, smokers everywhere. Take a look around you. Look at the moms, who have to tell their little kids to hold their breath as they walk by, so they won't breathe your poisonous fumes into their little lungs. Look at all the cigarette butts scattered on the sidewalk, in the street, in the parks where families play. They're everywhere! Look at the people who walk away coughing after being near you for a moment or two. What if one of them has asthma or an immune deficiency? Your cigarette smoke could literally be shortening their lives. Are you really as selfish as you seem? Do you really care so little for the people around you and the planet we live on, that you just don't give a damn? Do you honestly not care that you might be killing someone? Do you seriously believe that your right to inhale and exhale carcinogenic substances trumps everyone else's right to breathe clean air and to live full, healthy lives, unaffected by your toxic smoke? If you do, I feel sorry for you. It must be lonely to be that selfish and self-centered. And, I feel sorry for the rest of us, because we are your victims.

I think this qualifies as "Too Much Information"

2010-01-25T18:29:00.000-08:00

So, a few minutes ago, I was in the bathroom, drying off my wet, squirmy, giggling little guys after their bubble bath, and Foster says, "Hey Mommy. Sometimes I stick my finger in my butt!"

Hmmm....Thanks for sharing.

Cheers!

They wouldn't call it "Sex Addiction" if a woman was doing it!"

2010-01-23T09:11:00.000-08:00

So, Tiger Woods is a "Sex Addict", is he? Funny how famous men who are busted cheating on their wives so frequently come out with some kind of public comment, announcing their "addiction" and their plans to attend "sexual rehab" to deal with the problem. How friggin' stupid do they think we are?!! Where I come from, folks, we just call it CHEATING. But, no, these male celebrities don't have to actually take responsibility for their actions, because they just can't help themselves. They're addicts. Poor, poor, fellas...We should feel sorry for them, and support them through their rehabilitation process, and, oh yeah, make sure to keep watching them onscreen, or buying their merchandise, or going to their high-priced sporting events...

How come, when a woman cheats, she's never called a "sex addict"? How come the labels given to women who cheat rhyme with "witch" and "smut" and "bore"???

I'm not saying that cheating is ever OK. I'm against it, whether it's a man or a woman. I just think the old double-standard really stinks. So much male behavior is dismissed as "That's just the way men are," or "Poor guy is an addict," or "Boys will be boys" , while we women are required to own our behavior and to take responsibility for the choices we make...Interesting.

By the way, the new republican senator from Massachussetts? Did you hear about how he posed nude for a woman's magazine to help pay for law school? Nobody seems to have a problem with that. Not even the conservative Republican party he represents. Funny. I bet a woman would never be allowed to get away with that, even if she posed nude for the very same reason...

I hope I can raise my little boys to be men who rise above the double standard. Who take responsiblity for their own behavior. Who respect others, regardless of their gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, religious belief -- or non-belief, etc. But, it will take vigilance. It will take lots of conversations about the messages they get from T.V., the internet, song lyrics, and their peers. It will take modeling and consistency and discipline. It will take love and luck.

I just hope it works.

Cheers!

One to remember...

2010-01-20T15:59:00.000-08:00

OK, today I was driving home from a really fun afternoon with my boys...Everybody was kind've mellow and tired from all the running around and craziness at the playground...In fact, I was feeling SO mellow and tired that I was giving serious thought to stopping at a Cruisin' Coffee for a caffeine infusion...Each little boy had one of his stuffed animal dogs on his lap (Bingo and Poko), and they were playing "vet" in the van...

Here's what I overheard...

Spencer: "Don't worry, Bingo, I'm going to give you a shot, but it's not going to hurt at all."

Foster: "Poko, you're getting a shit too. And, your shit is going to hurt a little bit, but not that much. I'll give you kisses after."

Spencer (Very matter-of-factly): "Fos, you said 'shit' instead of 'shot'."

(At this point, I was giggling like crazy in the front seat, because neither boy knows the word "shit". They just haven't heard it yet. At least, not in our house. Some other words they shouldn't have heard of? Yeah, I admit I've uttered a few. Hubby too. But, not that particular one. So, they were just talking about it in this totally calm, regular way, and it was seriously cracking me up. I was laughing waaay too hard to educate them about the inappropriateness of what they were saying...I know, I know. Mother-of-the-Year, right?)

Foster: "Oh. OK. Well, Poko, I mean your shot is going to hurt just a little bit, not your shit."

Spencer: "Yeah. Shot. Not shit."

Me: "Bwaaaaa Haaaaa Haaaaaa......"

Cheers!

Do you think it's too late to send out the rest of my Christmas cards?

2010-01-16T18:13:00.000-08:00

OK, it's January 16th. I have at least 25 Christmas cards sitting on the desk, still waiting to be sent away to their destination. What happened? Well, I got about 1/3 of the way down my Christmas card list, and then total, complete chaos took over my life. (By the way, if you're one of the 1/3 of my loved ones who actually got a card -- consider yourself lucky. Or, tell yourself you were at the top of my list. Whichever makes you feel happiest, OK?) This is the first time, since 1999, that I haven't gotten my cards out! (Wow, I'm getting old...)

So, here's my question: Is it too late? I mean, it's really a beautiful card, afterall. It's got a picture of the four of us with the pumpkins we carved at Halloween, another of us on a Fall hayride, and a really cute one of the boys frolicking around with their stuffed animals. Wouldn't someone who really, really loves us want a Christmas card like that, even if it doesn't arrive until the end of January? AND, it says "Season's Greetings!" on the card. So, is it still the "season"???

I actually re-wrote the Christmas letter, and turned it into a "Happy New Year" letter, but that was when I was still hoping to get the cards out right around the 1st. Obviously that didn't happen either. Sigh.

To send, or not to send? That is the question...

Cheers!

If you don't want to donate money, don't donate. But, kindly shut up!

2010-01-15T07:51:00.000-08:00

I'm so mad! I have exactly 12 minutes before I have to be out the door with two little kids, getting one to the bus stop, the other to preschool, and myself to work. But, if I don't get this off my chest before I go, I'm going to be the world's worst school counselor today. I won't be good for anybody! Plus, I really want my boys to read this some day...

I just heard on the morning news that there are a bunch of U.S. citizens raising a ruckus about being asked to donate any money to help Haiti, because they feel that they've done their part by paying taxes, and the U.S. government gives money for charitable causes every year. You know what? If you don't want to donate anything to help, then don't give any. Nobody says you have to donate money. So, don't. Go buy yourself a latte and congratulate yourself on sticking to your principals (whatever those may be). But, shut up about the rest of us helping out. Seriously. Shut. The. Hell. Up. Don't protest being asked. Just don't give, if you don't feel like it. But, quit trying to raise a big public outcry about being asked and don't try to tell other people that they shouldn't open their hearts and their wallets, if they want to, when thousands upon thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children have been killed. Don't try to make some sort of loud, public case for not helping. Just zip your lip, let others help, and be glad that there are people who are willing to do it, since you're not.

Oh, and while you're at it, make sure to conveniently forget all the aid that poured into our country from people all over the world after 9/11. And, we're one of the wealthiest nations in the world. Forget all about that, while you're heading out for lunch or playing with your healthy, living children under a solid roof with food in your refrigerator and your family members just a phone call away. Or maybe you could skip going out to lunch today, pick up that cell phone of yours, text the number for the red cross, and have an additional $10 added to your bill. How about that for an idea?

I know there are Americans who really can't spare a dime, because they can't even feed their kids, or they've lost their home in this economy. I know, because we went through a layoff and terrifying financial insecurity and losing our savings and being afraid of losing our home...I know about not having extra money and worrying about your kids. I know about eating peanut butter and jelly for dinner, because meat is expensive, and you want your kids to get some protein. Those people who genuinely can't afford to offer any additional help aren't the people I'm talking about today. I'm talking to those folks who have enough time and energy on their hands to raise a public protest. Those folks who really could, at the very least, cough up $5 or $10, to help people who can't even imagine the luxury of being able to eat peanut butter and jelly (or anything else) for dinner -- People who have lost everything. Not just their homes, but their children, their parents, their friends...

But, you don't have to give. Whatever your reason, you don't have to help. But, please, please, please count your own blessings and quit complaining about being asked.

I'd rather go to the gynecologist than go to the dentist!

2010-01-14T07:24:00.000-08:00

I hate going to the dentist. I don't actually hate dentists, themselves. Most of them are probably lovely people. (Though you have to wonder about the mindset of someone who chooses such a pain-producing career, don't you? Remember Steve Martin's character in 'Little Shop of Horrors'?) But, if somebody said, "Beth, would you rather go to the gynecologist or the dentist?", I would skip all the way to the girlie doctor and happily put my feet up in the stirrups, as long as it meant I wouldn't have to sit in that dentist chair, glancing warily at the sharp, shining instruments they leave right there in front of you, as if to say "Heh, heh, heh....Look what's comin'!", and open up my mouth.

There's probably some long-buried psychological childhood trauma causing my feelings of anxiety and antagonism toward all things dental. I don't really care. I just know that I hate going. I never feel more helpless than when I'm tipped back in that chair with somebody poking around in my mouth with sharp objects. In spite of my best efforts to do all that relaxation stuff I do with my counseling students (visualization, breathing, etc.), I end up with my hands clenched in my lap until my knuckles turn white, and my feet flexed so hard that my arches hurt for the next 3 hours. I can't help it. And, here's the kicker: I've never even had a cavity. With the exception of a little crookedness and some staining from all the coffee and red wine I consume, my teeth are pretty much perfect. The only thing I've ever had done was wisdom teeth removal. And, for that, I was highly anesthetized AND had a glass of wine beforehand. So, I really, really have no reason to be afraid. And, yet, I am...Every. Single. Time.

In spite of my fear and loathing, I will continue to make my yearly visit. I will continue to hide my anxiety from my kids and give them cheerful smiles when they have to go to the dentist. Because it's the right thing to do. But I'm not gonna like it. Sigh.

Cheers!

"Weekend Mommies" - This one's for you!

2010-01-10T07:14:00.000-08:00

My boys woke up at 6:11am this morning. And, it's Sunday. They came flying out of their room, full of energy, raring to go, playing Red Light, Green Light in the hallway and laughing hysterically. (Question: Why is it that they can't wake up at 6:11am on school days, when I have to get them up and ready to go to schools on opposite sides of town AND get myself ready and to work on time? But, of course not. They wake up at 7:00 on those days, and then I have to drag them through the morning routine, as they moan, "We're tired, Mommy. We can't go any faster..." resulting in a last-minute mad, high-stress, desperate dash to make it everywhere we're supposed to be by 8:00am. Sigh.)

Anyway, the point of that rant was just to explain why I was up and checking my email at 6:30am on a Sunday morning. (Thanks, boys, I'm fully awake now, with no hope of getting back to sleep. I may as well get caught up on my email.) So, I got a message from Jill, a good friend of mine, who lives way too far away. She has two little kids, and she's sick. Really feeling crappy. She sounded exhausted and overwhelmed. And, here's the kicker. She's not just an all-week Mom, with a demanding job on top of that, she's a "Weekend Mom" too. What do I mean by that? I mean, her husband works during the week and on weekends. Maybe that doesn't sound so bad, but, what does it really mean to have a co-parent who works on the weekends? Well, if the Mom works, as well as taking care of the kids, it means there's no down time. No recovery time. None of that "me time" Moms crave and need in order to stay sane. She does 90% of the childcare during the week, because hubby's time off is when the kids are in school and she's at work, and frankly, because that seems to be what most Moms do anyway, right? Then, when the weekend rolls around, and other Moms are saying, "I'm so glad it's the weekend. Now, we have some family time, and I get a break 'cuz Daddy's here to help out", "Weekend Moms" are thinking, "At least I get a little bit of a break from my other job. But, how am I going to entertain the kids all by myself again this weekend? And, do all the errands I couldn't get to during the week? And, get any rest before the work week starts again?" And, if you're sick, forget about it! There's no going back to bed on the weekends. No snuggling in, drinking juice, and letting Daddy take care of the kids while you watch T.V., read trashy novels, and nap. It's all you, baby. All you.

Here's the other thing about being a weekend Mom. It's very lonely. Why? Because, your friends are doing stuff with their families, or they're getting their weekly break from motherhood while Daddy takes the kids, so they don't want to get together to do anything with you and your kids. They want a break from kids. They deserve a break from kids. Lucky ladies. But as for you? You come as a package deal on the weekends, just like throughout the week. It's you, and the kids. When your girlfriends say, "Hey, we're meeting for lunch or going to a matinee. Want to join us?" Sorry. Can't. I've got the kids. So, weekend Moms take their kids to McDonalds to burn some energy climbing around the play tubes. There, they get to see all the Daddies, who are there with their kids, giving their wives a break from parenthood for a bit. Or, they take their kids to the park or to the Children's Museum, and, again, they see the Daddies playing with their kids, no Mom in sight, or watch, enviously, as whole families have their weekend time together. It's hard. And, if you're lucky enough to have your partner around a little bit on the weekends, you feel compelled to make that "family time." After all, kids need time with both parents too. And, if family time is severely limited, you want to take advantage of it when it comes around. Or, it's the only time you can get some of those errands you just can't do with the kids done, so you have to rush around doing that instead. So, Mommy break time? Down time? Me time? Not so much. You wake up Monday morning, and it's time to start it all over again. Your co-workers innocently ask, "How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?" And, you want to smack them upside the head for asking...

So, to all the Moms out there whose partners don't work weekends, or who have family and friends who are available to take the kids on weekends for a while, or who can afford, in this economy, to pay someone to do just that -- You deserve it! Treasure it. Be thankful for it. You work your butts off raising your kids, and that break is something you earn every single week. But, if you're ever out on a weekend, enjoying your "me time", and you see an exhausted-looking Mom, all alone with her kids, give her a smile or an encouraging word. Trust me, she needs it.

And, to my good friend, Jill, who is trying to get well and take care of her little ones at the same time, and to "Weekend Mommies" everywhere -- I salute you! You are warriors. Women of steel. Capable of anything. You're sharing this fleeting time with your little ones and getting to experience just about every minute of it with them. Your kids will be incredibly bonded with you, because you are their care-giver, their support system, their rock. (At least, that's what I try to tell myself, when it's all getting to be too much, and I feel like I'm losing my mind.)

Hang in there, ladies. And, as for you single Moms, who are doing this all by yourselves. There are no words for how strong and amazing and heroic you are. No words...

Cheers!

Listen up "Parking Lot People", listen up!

2010-01-06T14:36:00.000-08:00

It's obvious to me that the people who design grocery store parking lots don't have kids -- or they're men, which means they very seldom actually do any grocery shopping -- and I'll tell you why. Because, if they did have kids, they'd put in a lot more SHOPPING CART RETURN areas. I mean, seriously people, cut a frazzled Mom some slack, will ya? I'm the kind of person who picks up other people's garbage and puts it in the garbage can. I hold doors open for little old ladies. I try as hard as I can to remember to bring my own re-usable bags to the grocery store, so I won't have to get plastic ones. I let people with just a couple of items go ahead of me in the checkout line. I really WANT to do the right thing. I WANT to return my cart to the appropriate spot. I really, really do. So, please, oh please, parking lot designers, if you ever loved your own mother, give the rest of us Moms some more options.

You see, here's the reality of shopping with little kids: I come out of the grocery store, my cart stacked to the brim with groceries, one little boy perched on each side, most likely hurling jokes and insults at one another across the expanse of groceries, while begging for a snack at the same time. I'm exhausted and frustrated, which goes without saying, and I'm envisioning getting home and having to unpack all these bags when I get there, not to mention cooking dinner after that. I arrive at my parking spot, waaaaaaaay in the back of the lot, of course, because that seems to be the only place I can ever find an open slot to park. The boys jump in and buckle up, after the initial pushing and shoving match, that is. I unload bag after bag after bag of groceries into the back of the minivan. (Yes, a minivan. I used to have a sassy red jeep wrangler. Now I'm a minivan Mom. Sob.) I turn to look for the nearest cart return area. It's 12 cars back the way I came. Or, I could pick the one that's only 3 cars ahead, but it's two aisles over. What's a Mom to do? I can't simply leave two little boys alone in the car to trek to the nearest cart return area. Have you not heard about little kids being carjacked along with the car? Hmmmm? Or, what about those situations where the Mom steps away for a minute, and one of the little kids somehow manages to climb up front, release the parking brake, and the car rolls back into traffic and gets hit? What about that? Huh? Of course, there's the option of getting the kids back out of the car to make the 1/4 mile trek to the cart return area, and back, with me. But, seriously, do you have any idea what this actually involves? Do you have any idea the added stress such a seemingly-insignificant endeavor can cause to the average exhausted mother? So, instead, I guiltily push my cart right over to where other frazzled parents have abandoned their own carts. I'm always careful to make sure it's not going to roll anywhere or hit anybody else's car or anything. Still. There's guilt. And I blame you, parking lot people. I. BLAME. YOU.

Cheers!

P.S. Totally different topic: My 4-year-old just came in, climbed up behind me on the chair, wrapped his arms around me, gave me a big squeeze and said, "Oooooh, Mommy. You have a big, big belly. I love your big belly." Um, thanks, Foster. Thanks a lot...SIGH.

Fake it 'til you make it!

2010-01-04T14:08:00.000-08:00

Ideally, "vacation time" should be time taken for rejuvenation and rest, right? Peaceful time. Refreshing time. Relaxing time...Well, one of the perks of my job as a middle school counselor is having the same vacations from work that my little guys have from school. Summers off? You really can't beat it, so what the heck am I whining about? But, here's the thing....to be honest, this can also be one of the down sides of my job. Constant, uninterrupted time with my little guys. When I'm off work, they're right there with me. Every time. I love my little boys. Madly. Deeply. Intensely. But, time off during the school year is when I'm supposed to be de-stressing from work and getting myself mentally and emotionally geared up for going back to helping young adolescents deal with everything from failing grades to abuse to drug use to (gulp) sex. Zen time. Me time. Time for reflection and self-care and all that great stuff I'm always telling other people to do, right? Not friggin' likely. Here I am. No helpful relatives in town. Hubby whose work keeps him away and leaves me as Parent-in-Charge 99% of the time. Two little boys who wake up every day between 6:00am and 6:30am with enough energy to power an entire city and go full bore until bedtime. Not a recipe for a relaxing work break...

So, was this holiday restful? Not so much. Peaceful? Not in the least. Rejuvenating? Uh-uh.

And, was I ready to go back to work today? Back to a world of adolescent angst? Worried parents? Budget cuts and stressed-out staff? No way! But, I told myself I was ready. I told myself I was rejuvenated. I waded back in with confidence, energy (in the form of huge quantities of caffeine), and a "can-do" attitude. In short, I took a piece of advice I frequently hand out to my clients: "Fake it, 'til you make it." And make it, I did. I even managed to feel more relaxed as the day went on.

So, while lounging on a beach in Hawaii may be impossible right now (heck, just one night away from the boys is impossible right now), I can always fall back on my little trick. Just fake it, 'til you make it. That, and a nice glass of red wine at the end of the day, will get me through just about anything. Cheers!