Everything's better with a little horse slobber!

Fall is my favorite season. No contest. The other seasons don't stand a chance with me. I love the way Fall smells, the way it looks (all those gorgeous leaves), the crispness in the air... I love breaking out the turtlenecks and scarves and sweaters for the season... I love spiking my hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and snuggling with my sweetie to watch football... I love that Fall means making great family memories on Halloween and Thanksgiving, and the anticipation of Christmas on the way... I love it all. And one of the things I love the most is Family Farm Day. What is it? It's actually a weekend in October, when farms throughout the county basically throw a giant open house for the public. They have free samples of their goods (as well as lots and lots of stuff you can buy, of course), activities for the kids, tours, mazes, hay rides, etc... Every year, I get online and print out the map of the farms. Then, in my completely anal retentive way, I figure out the exact, best route we can take to maximize our Family Farm experience. (My hubby just rolls his eyes and goes along with whatever I decide.) There are two absolute musts on our Family Farm Day. We must visit the Double O ranch, which is the farthest away, in the most beautiful location imaginable, because they have the absolute best hayride AND they have horses, and we must visit the Dairy Farm, because they give out free chocolate milk and ice cream bars. But, with around 16 farms to choose from, there are lots of other places to visit as well.

This year, Family Farm Day was the best one ever! Why? Because everything's better with a little horse slobber thrown in, don't you think? You see, I am a horse freak. I was the 12-year-old girl taking horseback riding lessons, Breyer horses lining every shelf and horse posters covering every space on the wall (except for the one space that was taken up by a poster of Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, with the hat, and the leather jacket, and the whip...sigh), dreaming of the day I would be riding bareback across the field of my very own ranch...aaaaah. Life turned out a bit different than I had planned, eh? Anyway, I still have four big boxes of Breyer horses sitting in my closet, because I just can't bring myself to part with them. I don't dare pass them on to my little guys, because the horses wouldn't stand a chance. I can just see those delicate legs breaking one by one as my boys stage a raging stampede across the backyard...It makes me shudder, just thinking about it.

Sooooo...back to my story. We got to the Double O ranch, which, in many ways, is the ranch of my fantasies. Every time we've visited, their horses are somewhere off in the distance - beautiful and untouchable. Not this time. Oh, no. This time, one of their horses was right up by the fence and looking for love. We were waiting for the hayride, when I saw her up ahead, and I was gone in a heartbeat, heading for the fence. Kids? What kids? Oh, they'll be fine with Daddy. There's a horse that needs my attention! Oh, it was heaven for me. She wanted to be scratched and rubbed and fed grass. She nickered and pushed me with her head and licked the salt off of my palms. It was glorious! John snapped my picture with a huge grin on his face. He said it was just about the perfect image of me, because it captured a moment of total, complete, happiness.

Finally, the mare took off for the other side of the field. SIGH. We had missed the hayride,(sorry, boys) so we wandered over to check out the barn before the next ride, and...OMG!...not one, but two, Clydesdale mares were tied up in the barn, just waiting for me to shower them with love and affection!!! I couldn't believe my eyes. So, abandoning my family once more, I headed straight for the horses, threw my arms around their necks and inhaled their wonderful horsey smell...I scratched behind their ears and rubbed underneath their chins...I could have stayed there all day, sandwiched in between those two horses, just loving life. John practically had to drag me out of the barn by my hair to get me to come along on the hayride. And, here's where the slobber part comes in. I plunked myself down on the hay bales, grinning from ear-to-ear, when John suddenly pointed and said, "Ewwww...what is that on your scarf?" It was horse slobber. A big, wet spot of Clydesdale slobber all over my scarf. Giggle. The icing on the cake! What a Family Farm Day! I can hardly wait until next year... Cheers!

I'd like to nominate myself for the "Just Doing the Best I Can Right Now, So Deal With It" award, please.

Now, I have never (and will never) describe myself as a Super Mom, Domestic Goddess, Earth Mother, or any other title that would somehow indicate:
a) That I know what the heck I'm doing most of the time,
b) That I am particularly talented at any aspect of mothering or housekeeping (with the exception of tickle fighting, at which I truly excel), OR
c) That anyone who knows me would ever use my name in the same sentence as Martha Stewart or Rachel Ray, unless it was to laughingly point out the differences between us.

With that said, I do make valiant attempts to assure that my little boys are happy, healthy, confident, polite (OK, OK, still working on that one!), bold, curious, relatively clean, friendly little guys, who know that they are loved beyond measure, even when they're pushing every single one of my buttons. For hours. And hours. And hours... Most of the time, I think I pull it off fairly well. Occasionally, I even manage to do that and clean the house and take a shower. But, there are days when I just can't do it anymore. You know what I'm talking about? Those days where something at work is so stressful that it's giving you high blood pressure and nightmares, or your significant other says something incredibly insensitive at the worst possible time of the month, or you are just so overwhelmed by the number of balls you are trying to keep in the air, that you can't do one...more...thing?

Yeah, that's kinda been this week for me. Something had to give...So, what did Spencer have for lunch yesterday? What did his loving, caring mother make for her sweet little baby to eat at kindergarten? What nutritious, delicious, healthy foods did she provide to nurture his body, mind, and spirit?

SPENCER'S LUNCH:
1. A packet of those ritz cracker sandwiches with peanut butter goo in the middle
2. A string cheese
3. A packet of strawberry-flavored fruit snacks
4. A juice box

I can't help wondering what his teachers and all the volunteer lunch Mommies thought of Spencer's less-than-gourmet meal. I can imagine them shaking their heads and thinking, "Couldn't she, at least, have thrown together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a banana?" "Oh, that poor little boy. Did you see what his mother gave him for lunch? Tsk. Tsk." "No vegetables? What kind of mother sends her son to school without any vegetables?" "Has anyone met that skinny little boys' mother?" SIGH...

So, I'm nominating myself for an award. I'm calling it: "Just Doing the Best I Can Right Now, So Deal With It" award. And, the winner is..... Me! (Cue the clapping and cheering...) By the way, today, Spencer had a ham and cheese sandwich, some cranberries, milk, and a granola bar for lunch. So, I'm not doing that badly...

And, speaking of awards, I'd like to thank two lovely ladies for giving me a shout-out on their own blogs. First, to my blog buddy at 2 Toddlers and Me, who not only gave me an award, but who also leaves me thoughtful, encouraging comments, no matter how nutball my postings may be, AND who emailed me to tell me how to take an award and cut it, paste it, and do all the stuff you're supposed to do with it, after you get it. (Which I tried this afternoon. Couldn't figure it out, in spite of her idiot-proof, step-by-step instructions. I'm not lying when I say I am technologically-impaired, folks.) Anyway, you should check her out for insightful, funny, touching stories, as well as some really cool ideas on how to keep your little ones happily occupied. I'd also like to thank Leigh at Leigh vs the Laundry for the award she graciously bestowed upon me. She is hilarious and intelligent, and I get so excited when I see that she's written another post. If you haven't checked her out yet...do it. Guaranteed giggle. And, if I can ever figure out how to get the awards over here on my blog, I'll do it, and I'll pay 'em forward...

Now, I am off to sing bedtime songs, tuck in little hands and feet, and shower my boys with their nightly hugs and kisses. So, as they say to me every single night: "Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Love you more than you love me!" Cheers!

OK, the wall is gone. Now what?

Sooooo...yesterday was weird. Started out like any other Sunday. The kids woke up at 6:15am (just like every other day of the week - sob). John dragged himself out of bed, because I lay there stubbornly pretending that I was asleep, ignoring the cries of "Mommy, I'm hungry!" "Mommy, come look at the Lego robot I made for you!" "Mommy, Foster poked me in the butt!" "Mommy, Spencer stuck his tongue out at me!" Really, I'm on morning duty every other day of the week. Daddy can have Sundays. Anyway, he got the boys breakfast, raved about the Lego robots, and refereed a major wrestling match. Then, he plunked them down in front of a Disney movie, brought me a fresh cup of coffee with JUST the right amount of Splenda and milk (perfection), and snuggled back into bed. Around here, Sunday is "Disney Movie Sunday" -- a morning routine hubby and I invented, so that we could actually have a little alone time in bed to (nope, sorry those of you with dirty minds) drink coffee while we watch Face the Nation, George Stephanopolous, and Meet the Press. Yeah, we're weekend news junkies. Can't help it. We love it! We get all fired up. We debate. We argue. We commiserate with each other. It's GREAT! Usually, the movie winds down right around the time we've had all the news we can take, are totally disgusted by our own country's partisan bickering, and are planning a move to Canada. The kids join us in bed for a major family tickle fight, and then the day really begins...

So, yesterday, I innocently said, "Honey, I know I said this before, but I really think we should make a pass-through from the kitchen to the living room. It would really open up this tiny little space, y'know? If we're going to replace the laminate flooring, anyway, maybe now would be a good time to do it." Now, normally around here, home improvement projects start with me broaching the idea. A few weeks go by...I broach it again. Some more time goes by, I do a little internet research on how it's done and crunch the numbers...I broach it again. Eventually, if I haven't given up yet, the project might begin. It starts. It stops for a long period of time. Then it starts again. Then it stops. You're getting the picture, right? The problem is that I'm an overly enthusiastic "idea person" married to someone who generally feels pretty content with things the way they are, and isn't particularly experienced with, or excited about, home improvement projects. On top of that, I'm not handy. At all. I'm more of a big picture kind've a gal, which means it's up to hubby to make it happen, with me cheering him on and eagerly wielding a hammer, screwdriver, or any other tool he puts in my hand. (Hey, we make it work, somehow. We've managed to tear down a dog run, uproot a giant, rotten tree, re-do a driveway, landscape a yard, rip off an old roof, install new countertops, build a front deck, do a mini-remodel on a bathroom, and put in a backyard drainage system. And, we still love each other when each project ends, though we're not always feeling the love during it...)

Anyway, I brought up the pass-through notion at about noon. By 5:00pm, we no longer had a wall between our kitchen and living room. Well, we still had the frame of a wall, but all the drywall was gone, John had boldly declared, "Forget the pass-through. I'm just going to take down this whole section of wall. That'll REALLY open up the whole area!", and I was heading out the door to grab fast food we could eat in the living room, because I had no power in my kitchen, and there was a pile of drywall, nails, staples, and wood as high as our kitchen counter taking up the entire dining area. Gulp. Be careful what you wish for...

So, in two weeks, my parents, along with my sister, brother-in-law, and niece are coming up to celebrate my Mom's birthday. Will we be sitting down, eating a lovely dinner at the kitchen table? Or, will we be balancing plates and beverages on our laps in the living room? Hard to tell. I'll let you know... Cheers!

Nobody wants to go on a playdate looking like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer!

OK, first things first. Playdating is just as nerve-wracking as real dating used to be when I was single. I know that I need to put myself out there to meet the other Kindergarten parents. Spence is making friends and wants to get to know them better, so I've got to bite the bullet, right? So, I bravely emailed a few of the other parents from his Kindergarten class, and the playdating dance has begun. In fact, my first new playdate was supposed to happen today. We set it up two days ago, and I actually found myself worrying about what I was going to wear today. Seriously. Like it matters if I show up in sweatpants, work clothes, or "Mommy Jeans." But, I've actually been having thoughts like, "What if they don't like me?" "What if they live in a mansion and then come over to our teeny little house and think we're not worthy?" "What if the other Moms are all skinny and have perfect make-up and do Pilates?" "What if I don't fit in?" Notice that these questions are all about me and my insecurities? I have total faith in Spencer. He's a lovable, friendly kid. No worries there. Nope, all my anxiety is about my own potential unworthiness. What if we have a first playdate and then they never call me again??? I am having serious flashbacks to adolescence here. Ahhh, the fear of rejection!

So, today was supposed to be the first one. The big day. Spence was excited. I was nervous and excited too. But, I woke up experiencing side effects from the cortisone shot I had on Monday afternoon. I made it through work, and then I got online at home to look up my symptoms. (Thank goodness for Web MD.) And, lucky me -- I have two of the most popular side effects. First, I have something known in the medical community as "cortisone flare." That's the intensely increased pain which some patients experience for 48-72 hours after their injection, before the promised relief begins. Yeah. So, it's actually worse than it was before I got the shot that's supposed to make me quit limping around in constant pain. Fun, fun, fun! Second, I am one of the roughly 15% of patients who also get "facial flushing" after receiving their shot. Now, that really doesn't sound so bad, right? You're picturing a nice blush spreading across my cheeks, leaving me glowy and dewy-loooking, perhaps? WRONG! It started this morning with bright (and I do mean bright) red spots on each cheek. And, my skin felt HOT! Then, as the morning wore on, my face got redder and redder and redder. My secretary actually looked up at me and said, "I can actually see your nose getting redder. Does it feel hot, too?" Yes, actually. Every part of my face is boiling hot. I look like a rock lobster... One of my students stopped by to see me and said, "Mrs. B! Dude! What's wrong with your face???" Then, when I met Spencer at his bus this afternoon, he said, "Mommy, you're all RED! You look funny." Thanks a lot, kid. Way to be supportive.

Needless to say, there is no way I'm going on my very first playdate with a new family looking like Rudolph-the-friggin-Red-Nosed-Reindeer and feeling like my face is about to melt right off of my head. Not. Gonna. Happen. So, I called and postponed it. The other Mom was lovely about it on the phone, so we'll try again next week. And, maybe I'll have time to lose a few pounds before our playdate... sigh. Cheers!

Mix together a green monster and a cortisone shot, and you get...4:00am insomnia!

It's early. Really, really, really early. (At least for me. I'm not one of those moms who manages to drag myself out of bed at 4:00am to do yoga and have a little "me time" before the kids wake up at 6:00 and the 15 hours of daily life, work, and parenting chaos begins. You know that mantra we all read in parenting magazines and see on Oprah and hear from numerous filthy rich airbrushed celebrity moms who probably have multiple nannies to help lighten their load: "Take care of the mother of the household, or the household will fall apart." I agree that you have to take some time for yourself to maintain your sanity, but getting up at 4:00am BY CHOICE is not taking care of yourself, in my mind. It's not "Me time." It's robbing myself of precious sleep that I will never, ever get back! I digress...) So, I haven't been awake since 4 in the morning because I am about to embark on some sort of exercise program or meditation or any of the other things I keep hearing I should be doing. I'm awake because of the green-eyed monster...

Just before 4:00, I woke up to hear Foster's small, scared voice from Daddy's side of the bed. "Daddy, I had a bad dream. It was a green monster with a green eye. And you and Mommy were there too, but you were green." Daddy's half-asleep response? "OK. Well, it's just a dream (pat, pat). Go back to bed." Sorry, babe, that's just not gonna cut it for this Mommy. You don't hear that frightened, shaking little voice and just send him back to bed with a pat on the head. You also don't ever, ever send a 4-year-old, who just had a nightmare, back to bed without first going potty. Not unless you're planning on washing sheets in the morning. And, let's face it. The one throwing sheets in the washer before rushing out the door in the morning would NOT be Daddy... It would be me. SIGH.

Anyway, I sat up and whispered, "Sweetie, you're safe. You're awake now. I'll get up and meet you at the potty, and then I'll come and tuck you in." Then I got out of bed. That's when I remembered that I had a cortisone shot in my ankle joint and heel just a few hours ago. Oh, yeah. Blinding pain. Forgot about that. Really, it's a testament to Motherhood (cue the angelic background music) that I even woke up at the sound of my little one's voice. Two extra-strength pain relievers, a glass of Cabernet, and a Benadryl should've knocked out a horse (even a horse who just had a cortisone shot in her ankle joint) for at least 8 hours, don't you think? Have you ever had a cortisone shot? I had my first one in my ankle and heel 3 months ago, and I uttered a word that I don't even think of when some idiot on her cell phone cuts me off in traffic, causing my travel coffee cup to go flying and spill coffee all over the only pair of work pants that's actually clean enough to wear to work and still fits my expanding rear end, and making me think of some very creative words I'd like to yell at her, but can't, because my kids are sitting right behind me....A. Very. Bad. Word. And I said it loudly. To my orthopedic surgeon. Whose son goes to the school where I am a school counselor. Yikes.

What is my point? Bear with me, folks, I'm sleep-deprived, and my ankle feels like it's actually resting in a lit BBQ. My point is this: It really hurts. My other point is this: It doesn't matter how much it hurts, because, when your little one is terrified and trying very, very hard to be a brave boy, you limp over to him, you snuggle him, you take him to the potty, and then you tuck him in and let him tell you all about his dream (including the part where, not only am I completely green all over, but I have a bird beak instead of a human mouth -- What is that all about?) until he feels safe and secure again. And, I'll tell you, while I was lying in his bed, with my arms wrapped around him, I couldn't feel the pain in my ankle. All I could feel was his little body shaking, his heart pounding, his skinny little arms gripping (and I do mean gripping) my neck, and then that wonderful feeling when he started to relax, to breathe a little bit easier, then gave me a kiss and said, "I love you so, so, much, Mommy." Cortisone shot? What cortisone shot?

But, now I have insomnia. There's no more sleep for me today. I tried to watch some T.V. earlier, but we only have basic cable (Damn recession!) My choices were CNN (which I actually watch fairly regularly, but not at 4:00am), the shopping network (sorry, nice lady from Texas, but I actually don't need a gaudy ring the size of an actual chicken's egg to wear around the house, in spite of your insistence that it will make me really, really happy), a weird old movie on the Canadian T.V. channel, or a variety of infomercials designed to make me feel bad about myself and spend lots of money erasing my wrinkles, firming my abs, "lengthening my thighs" (Will that make me taller?), fixing my thinning hair, or buying a vacuum cleaner that will miraculously make my house incredibly clean, and "It does all the work for you". Yeah, right.

Think I'll head out to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. And, maybe I'll grab a piece of the leftover Domino's pizza John and I were eating while we watched The Biggest Loser last night (I know. It's wrong on so many levels). It's just after 5:00 now (I took a break from writing to take a couple more Tylenol and stare out the window for a bit), so the early, early, early show should be coming on soon, and I can get the news before anybody else gets up. Hey -- I guess I'm having some of that "Me time!" Cheers!

Ahhhh....The way they see the world!

I am constantly amazed and delighted by the way my boys view the world. Whether it be the total concentration they'll give to a teeny little bug I would've stepped over without even noticing, or the creative and incredibly detailed shapes they see in the clouds, or their endless fascination with all things having to do with the potty, or just the wacky things that come out of their mouths -- they always surprise me (and occasionally gross me out as well). Well, earlier today, Spence and I were heading out to pick Foster up from preschool, and he said, "Hey, Mom. I know that I was born, but I can't remember exactly WHEN I was born. Do you know?" So, I told him his birthday, and then he said something that was really adorable. A huge grin broke out over his face, and he said, "Mommy, thanks so much for finding that memory for me!" Cute, huh? In his view of things, he had lost the memory of his birthday, and I found it for him. I just love the way he thinks!

Cheers!

Thanks for the (QUACK) great dinner (QUACK, QUACK).

You know how, when you haven't been out in a while ( a long, long, long while), you kind've forget all those social graces and feel sort of awkward and klutzy at the whole socializing thing? (It's probably just me, and the rest of you are socially adept and captivating and enchanting in all social settings, even if it's been ages since you were at a party that didn't involve small children, balloon animals, and birthday cakes shaped like clowns or dinosaurs...) Anyway, my social skills were put to the test when a friend of mine invited us to join her for a delicious turkey dinner feast with her family and friends last night. There were a few older kids there, as well as three big, friendly dogs, so my boys were well-occupied, and hubby and I got to have real conversations with real grownups for a change. It was really fun and interesting to meet these fascinating, and really lovely, people, and I was starting to get back into the socializing groove and feeling pretty good about my conversational skills, until...the quacking started.

Quacking? Yes, quacking. One of the dogs had a stuffed duck chew toy that made an incredibly realistic (and loud) quacking sound whenever he bit down on the squeaker. So, all of the grownups had piled our plates with delectable goodies and sat down outside for eating and conversation, and there was the dog, chewing on his duck. Quack. Quack. Quack. Now, my friend, her family, and most of the guests there seemed to be completely immune to the sound of this quacking. So, conversation just went happily on around me, and I tried valiantly to listen, to chime in, and to seem like a reasonably intelligent contributor. But, here's what I was hearing: "Oh, yes, apples are (quack) actually one of the most (quack, quack) difficult crops to grow (quackity quack) because you can't rotate (quack) them like you would other (quack, quack) crops." I could not keep a straight face, let alone offer any sort of semi-intelligent comment. When one of the guests turned and asked me a work-related question, I heard something along the lines of: "What do you (quackity quack) think about parents who (quack) follow their (quack) children to see what they're (quack, quack, quack) doing during the (quacky) day?" Finally, I just started giggling. I couldn't help it. Every time that dog bit down and "QUACK!" rang out, I just couldn't help it. The kicker was when I looked across the table and caught the eye of another woman who was clearly having as hard a time as I was ignoring all the quacking. We looked into each other's eyes, and it was all over for me. Her face was red, her eyes were watery, and she was trying as hard as she could not to break out into giggles as well. That just made me laugh even harder...

So, my first outing in quite some time proved to me that I need to sharpen up the old social skills a bit and try to work on my focus during conversations. And, I really hope the folks at the table weren't too put off by the nutty school counselor giggling like a madwoman all during dinner, because the company was truly charming, and the food was absolutely delicious. Quack!

Cheers!

In Praise of My Hubby!

I am writing in total silence. What does that mean? It means no kids squealing, yelling, fighting, singing, pounding, running top speed down the hall (which sounds, roughly, like I imagine stampeding rhinoceroses would sound), or saying, "Mommy, I'm HUNGRY!", "Mom, he hit me AGAIN!", "Mom, come look at this bug!", "Mommy, there's dog poop in the yard!", etc., etc., etc... Why is it quiet right now -- a phenomenon so rare it should be on some sort of endangered phenomenon list? Because, just a little while ago, my wonderful husband packed a lunch, asked each little boy to pack their backpacks with a few toys, and left for a father & sons adventure. And, why did my darling, wonderful, stupendous husband do so? Because I feel crummy, and I really, really need some rest. (Something I am planning to get RIGHT after I finish this post, as a matter of fact! I just couldn't resist writing in this glorious silence before heading off for a cup of green tea and a nap.)

I think today's Mommy respite is due to yesterday's mini-meltdown at the playground where the boys and I had met Daddy on his lunch break. You know when you're not super-sick, but you know your body is fighting something, you feel achy and yucky and lousy all over, and it makes every little movement, decision, or chore that much harder? That was me yesterday, and, by the time we had arrived at the playground, I was done. Only I couldn't really be done, because I still had hours and hours and hours of Mommy duty ahead of me before the boys would be out for the night. (We met John at 11:00am. I'd already been up with the boys for 5 hours, with another 8 1/2 hours to go until the first one would be in bed! It makes me tired all over again, just thinking about it...)

Anyway, we were sitting at the playground, eating our picnic, and I looked over at my happily oblivious husband, whispered, "Honey, I don't feel very good," and then burst into tears. And, my husband, my hero, did exactly what I needed him to do. He put his arms around me, told me I shouldn't try to be SuperMom, and pointed out that the boys wouldn't be damaged forever by an afternoon spent watching TV, while I took it easy until he could come home and take over. And now, he and the boys are off on a male-bonding adventure, and I can go take a nap in my peaceful, silent house.

Life. Is. Good. Cheers!

Out of the Mouths of Babes...

A quote from my 5-year-old just a few minutes ago: "Hey Mommy. I was thinking about it, and I decided that I love you a whole, whole, whole lot. But, I don't love you as much as I love chocolate. I do love you more than ice cream though." SIGH.

Cheers!

"A long time ago when I was three..."

I'm having a hard week. A really hard week. The kind of week where you start to doubt that humanity really deserves to survive on this planet, and you start rooting for the cockroaches to take over the earth. The kind of week where you wonder why you try so hard to make a difference, when it doesn't feel like anybody's noticing or appreciating your efforts. The kind of week where you marvel over how often people who are lazy or incompetent or who just don't give a rip still get ahead, because they're so good at kissing the right butts. The kind of week that causes you to have thoughts like: "Why do good, loving people get cancer or get swept away by flood waters while rapists and child molesters get out of jail early for good behavior? Why are so many people being murdered, persecuted, or displaced in the name of religion or politics? Why are there so many unscrupulous millionaires out there, and hardworking people like us can barely pay our bills? Why aren't people who want to have children first required to take parenting classes and apply for a license so they won't ever think it's OK to push their child into a closet and beat her with a wire hanger?" Deep questions. Disturbing questions. Questions with no good answers. So, basically, it's been the kind of week that makes you want to put on your softest, comfiest pajamas, and crawl back into bed until it's over, y'know? (And, it's only Wednesday. SIGH.)

Well, since retreating to my bed is not really a realistic option for me, I have decided to find something to focus on that will help me to appreciate the lighter, happier, more loving side of life again. Where do I go for this sort of inspiration? I don't even need to leave my house! My little boys provide me with enough material to crack the darkest depression (as long as I'm looking for it and appreciating it), and if they're not providing the laughs, my dear hubby usually says or does something giggle-worthy on a daily basis. So, to cheer myself up, and perhaps to spread it around a little, I offer a few tidbits from the last few days:

Foster: "Mommy, remember a long time ago when I was three?" I didn't hear anything after the "long time ago" part, because I was cracking up. He's only been four for two months. The briefest blink in time for me -- a lifetime for him.

Spencer suddenly discovering that he can cross his eyes and then walking around crashing into things. Seriously. He has a big goose egg on his forehead from walking into a wall while cross-eyed. He thinks it's the coolest thing ever.

Hubby being told by one of his elderly female bus passengers that he really should send a photo of his legs into Playgirl magazine. (He does have great legs, by the way. But, he was shocked to hear it from a flirty 80-year old woman. What do you say to a comment like that? "Um, thanks ma'am?")

Spencer and Foster making 16 batches of "poison" and lining them up in our yard, in case any bad guys come around. (I'm not kidding about the 16 batches. There are 16 different containers lined up in the yard, varying in size from a medium-sized wheelbarrow to a teeny little tupperware container, each containing a bit of my boys' concoction.) What's in this poisonous brew they're making? Water, grass, sticks, mud, small rocks, and hand soap. They "brew" it, they stir it, they check on it every day, they add to it, and they ask me at least twice a day to come and look at it. What can I say? Some kids make mud pies. My boys make "poison to get the bad guys." At least they work together and get along while they're doing it.

Foster (overheard while they were playing around in our neighbor's giant evergreen bush): "You know, Spence, Mom still calls us her babies sometimes, but we're not babies anymore. Do you think we should tell her that we're big boys now?" Bittersweet, that one...

Spencer: "Mommy! MOMMY! I can stretch my penis a long, long way. Do you want to see?"
(Oh, motherhood is a constant surprise, isn't it? Every day I hear things that I never, ever thought I'd hear...)

Hubby (while watching a little bit of Dancing With The Stars last night during our channel-surfing marathon): "You should get a pair of pants like that!" My reply: "You do realize that putting on a pair of pants like that isn't going to make my body look like hers, don't you?" His reply: "Yeah. Yours will look better." And then we turned the TV off...Use your imagination.

Foster (last night, when I was tucking him in): "Mommy, after you sing me songs, do you think we could snuggle and talk for a little bit?" And, we did...

Spencer: "I love you more than you love me, Mommy. And don't say it's not possible, 'cuz it's totally possible! I know it."

OK, I feel better. Cheers!

Happy Birthday, Dear Kitties....Happy Birthday to You!!!

Yesterday, Spence asked me when it would be Sugar Kitty's birthday. Just to be clear, there are actually three "Sugar Kitties". There's Big Sugar Kitty, Little Sugar Kitty, and The Other Little Sugar Kitty. These three (along with Apple -- the giant stuffed dog that takes turns "sleeping" on their beds) are the boys' favorite stuffed animals. Big Sugar came along first -- a gift from Grandma. Spencer immediately fell in love with her and named her Sugar because he said she was "just so sweet." Awwwwww.... Then, along came a miniature version, which was immediately named Little Sugar Kitty. Very creative, don't you think? Shortly thereafter, we came across a twin version of Little Sugar Kitty, so it was, of course, named The Other Little Sugar Kitty. (Why did they name the giant stuffed dog Apple? No idea. Foster said it just sounded like a good name to him, and it stuck.) Anyway, Spence wanted to know when it would be time to have a birthday party for the Sugar Kitties, so I told him we'd throw them a birthday party today. And, what a day we had! I highly recommend doing this, especially on a rainy day.

Our entire day was all about the Sugar Kitties. In the morning, the boys sang "Happy Birthday" to their kitties and then proceeded to play with all of their stuffed animals. Together. Calmly. Without fighting. For over an hour. (If you don't have boys, you don't understand what a miracle that is. Truly, a miracle.) I brought the boys little saucers of milk and goldfish crackers for snack time, and they managed to turn that into another 45 minutes of play. I actually drank an entire cup of coffee, by myself. The whole thing. In peace. Ahhh...

When the stuffed animal party wound down, we decided to bake a birthday cake. We made a real cake. I can't guarantee that somebody won't bite into a piece of eggshell at some point, but I can guarantee that the boys' hands were clean, and that the cake was made with tons of giggles and lots of love. While it was cooling, the boys made birthday cards for the kitties, and we blew up a couple of balloons and played "bop the balloon" all over the house for a while, laughing like crazy. Then, since it was pouring rain, we decided to snuggle up in the living room and watch "The Aristocats". Of course, the boys wrapped their kitties up in blankets, and sat them in front of the T.V., so they could "watch" too...

During the movie, the sun decided to come out, afterall, so we packed the Sugar Kitties into the boys' backpacks and took them outside for a birthday bike ride around our cul-de-sac. At Spencer's insistence, I had to make sure to poke the kitties' heads out of the top of the backpacks, so they could "see" what was going on. (And, yes, I took pictures. Lots of pictures. This whole day has been documented for future laughter...)

After I was informed that "Our Sugar Kitties want to go inside now", we went in and iced the cakes. I just cut the sheet cake in half, so they could each ice their own. Chocolate icing for my chocaholic older son. Vanilla for my little guy. It was hilarious. There was icing everywhere, and not much of it went on the cakes. Spencer had chocolate icing in his ear. His ear! How does that even happen??? The three Sugar Kitties had been "shown" their birthday cards and were set up on the table, so they could "watch" their birthday cakes being iced.

The boys had already decided that the best birthday dinner would be cereal, so we munched on bowls of Cheerios and drank orange juice. Then, it was on to the cakes! We sang "Happy Birthday" again, each boy blew out the candle on his cake, patted each Sugar Kitty on the head, and dug in. So much fun.

So now, the boys are each picking out their bedtime story for tonight. They've already tucked their Sugar Kitties into bed. Of course, with all the cake and ice cream that was consumed, bedtime might not go as smoothly as it usually does. But, it was worth it. Sure, there's icing smeared all over my kitchen, and all three Sugar Kitties desperately need to be washed tomorrow, but who cares? I'm not going to remember that. But I'm going to remember this day with my little boys forever.

Happy Birthday, Dear Sugar Kitties.... Happy Birthday to Youuuuuuuu.......... Cheers!

The Joys of Sleep Deprivation

You know how some parents will sigh, heavily, and say, "Oh my gosh. Our baby didn't sleep through the night until she was a year old. I thought I would lose my mind. It was terrible!" Well, I'm pretty sure I haven't had a full night's sleep in 4 years. Why? Because our 4-year old has nightmares and, even worse, night terrors. Talk about a Mommy adrenaline rush. Wait until your little one is screaming at the top of his lungs that there are crabs in his bed trying to pinch him, and you can tell that he actually SEES them there in front of him. Scary. There's no getting back to sleep after one of those.... Luckily, they seem to be lessening over time, but the crying and moaning and thrashing around still happens regularly, and I've become so attuned to it that it wakes me up every time. Now, add in this fun factor: Perimenopause, which first reared its ugly head for me 2 years ago, before I even turned 40, has resulted in night sweats and insomnia at least 4 nights a week. (Ahhhh, the joys of being a woman! And men think they're so tough....They wouldn't last a year in a woman's body! For more about the joys of perimenopause, please check out Why isn't menopause called womenopause?) And the final sleep deprivation factor is....Snoring. Not mine. My husband's. It's especially bad in the spring and fall, when his allergies are acting up. It's like sleeping next to a chainsaw. But, there's no rhythm to it, so I can't accommodate to the sound and drift off to sleep, you know? It's random, and it changes pitch and tone and volume throughout the night. All night. Almost every night. So, you see, when it comes to getting a full night's sleep, I'm pretty much screwed.

Being chronically sleep deprived, I have learned a few survival strategies. Tips, you might say, to make sure that disaster doesn't occur as a result of too little sleep.

1) I write everything down that I'm supposed to remember for the next day, and I put it on sticky notes the night before. That one's a lifesaver. I also call my home phone from work to remind myself to write things down on the sticky notes. It cracks my husband up every time he hears one of my messages to myself -- "Hi. This is yourself. Don't forget that tomorrow is share day at preschool." He thinks it's funny. He doesn't really appreciate the necessity of it, since he sleeps like a baby pretty much every night. (Not a baby with night terrors, either. The other kind. The kind that sleeps through the night. SIGH.)

2) I set the timer on the coffee maker the night before (extra strong setting), so it'll be ready when I drag my sorry carcass out of bed in the morning. I have become that person you see on the commercials -- the exhausted looking one who literally can't function until she smells coffee wafting through the air and drinks down that first cup. It takes me about 3 cups to really feel like a fully-funtioning human being.

3) I never assume that I am as alert as I feel after the 3rd cup of coffee. I turn on the cold air vents or roll down the windows when I'm driving, just in case...

4) I try not to ever set a beverage down next to anything else that's liquid, because I have been known, in my sleepy state, to pick up the wrong bottle or cup and take a swig. In fact, I learned just two days ago what baby shampoo tastes like, because it was sitting right next to my Diet 7 Up. FYI? It tastes terrible. I don't recommend it. I can also describe what it feels like to accidentally drink one of your contacts, in case you're interested.

Well, I only have to make it through 1 hour, 47 minutes more of parenting, before both boys will be snoozing, and I can collapse into bed. And, if luck is on my side, tonight will be hot-flash free, my little guy won't have a nightmare or wet the bed, and my darling hubby won't drive me out of our nice, soft bed with his chainsaw-like snoring. I can only hope...

Cheers!

The longest school bus ride EVER!

So, today, my school bus nightmare came true. It's probably some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, because I already had anxiety about my little guy riding the bus (see Kindergarten Countdown for more of my neurotic ramblings on the topic), so I probably created some kind of negative energy that resulted in today's mini-disaster.

Here's what happened... Today was Spencer's first time riding the bus home from morning Kindergarten. Not wanting to be late, I flew out of work, played havoc with the speed limit, and made record time driving across town, so that I could be on time to meet his bus. When I had called to see what time the bus would drop off, I was told it would arrive "Around 12-ish." So, I was there at 11:49, just in case. I waited at the corner (at the same place the bus drops kids off after the regular school day), looking eagerly down the hill, watching for the bus bearing my beloved child. I chatted with the friendly (and, frankly, pretty easy-on-the-eyes) Daddy who was on the other side of the street, waiting for the bus to pick UP his own Kindergartener for the afternoon session. We all waited and waited and waited... Cute Daddy was starting to get pretty antsy, but his pick-up bus finally arrived, about 10 minutes later than expected. I watched from directly across the street, as his little boy climbed up onto the bus with Cute Daddy taking pictures of every step. I caught the bus driver's eye and gave her a cheery wave, all the while wondering when Spencer's bus would chug up the hill so I could smother him with hugs and kisses. The school bus turned, right in front of me, and continued on down the hill. Cute Daddy crossed over to chat with me a little more about the neighborhood and Kindergarten and such. I was just being neighborly, you understand... My own chattiness had nothing to do with his sparkly blue eyes and nice smile. (Hey, I'm happily married, but it's not like my eyes have been gouged out of my head. I can still appreciate a little eye-candy, can't I?)

Anyway, when 12:30 had rolled around, and no drop-off bus had arrived, I was starting to get pretty anxious. Cute Daddy loaned me his cell phone, so I called the bus transportation line and explained that my little one had yet to show up. The lovely woman on the other end of the phone sighed and said, "Oh, we're showing that your son's bus was there on time at drop-off." I semi-calmly explained that I had been standing on this very spot since 11:50, and that the only bus that had come by was the one picking up kids for afternoon Kindergarten. "Yeah, that's the bus," she replied. Cue the instant migraine! "But, the bus always drops the big kids off on the other side of the street, and I was standing RIGHT there! The bus driver waved at me! Do you mean to tell me that my son is still on that bus???" (All the time, I was thinking to myself, "I KNEW he shouldn't be riding the bus. He's just a baaaabbbbyyyyyy........") Then, with an edge of hysteria in my voice, I asked, "Where is my son at this exact moment?" I was told that I needed to drive to his elementary school, and that he'd be arriving there in 20 more minutes. Keep in mind that, at this point, my little 5-year-old had already been riding the bus for over an hour. What if he had to pee? What if he was crying and wondering why I hadn't picked him up? What if he was all alone and scared on his long, long bus ride?

Meanwhile, I was now almost half-an-hour late to pick up my younger son from his preschool, and I was on the verge of a total meltdown. So, thanking Cute Daddy for the use of the cell phone (and vowing to go get one of my own and then attach it permanently to my hip), I ran home, called my preschool to explain my situation, and headed to Spencer's school, where I paced back-and-forth in front of the entrance like a hungry tiger. The bus was 5 minutes later than expected. Then 10 minutes. Then 15. At 17 minutes past arrival time, I walked into the main office, caught the eye of the secretary, said in a small, pathetic voice, "I've lost my son," and burst into tears. The school bus arrived roughly 3 minutes later...

And, how did Spencer handle his ordeal? Was he traumatized? Did he cling to me like a limpet and tell me how much he'd missed me? Did he say that he never wants to ride the school bus again? Of course not. He hopped off the bus, wiggled out of my unusually intense embrace, and said, "Hi Mommy. That was the longest bus ride ever! I saw you waiting, and I waved at you, but you were on the wrong side of the street. Next time you need to be on the other side, OK?"

What's the lesson here? Well, it's plain to see that Spencer is way more ready for this new stage than I am. Definitely.

Cheers!

I've got nuthin!

I really felt like blogging today. My blog is supposed to be this great creative outlet, right? A place where I can rant and rave and share stories. A spot where I can document the craziness of life and be able to check back in the future to see what was going on, what I was thinking, what my little guys were doing/breaking/thinking, which articles of clothing my husband left on the bathroom floor that day (Today's collection? Black flannel sweatpants, a white t-shirt, boxers, and a pair of socks that really, really, really need to be washed)...

But, today, I've got nuthin!

My mind's a blank!

Just felt like saying that.

SIGH...

And, I only had TWO meltdowns!

I did it. Yesterday, I survived Spencer's first day of Kindergarten. And, I made it through with only two, brief episodes of crying, neither of which could be described as full-on blubbering or a truly "ugly" cry. The first happened, suddenly, as we were waiting for the bus. There we were: Mommy, Daddy, Spence, his little brother, Grandma, and Grandpa, complete with camera and videocamera, laughing and celebrating and having a grand time. He held his "My First Day of Kindergarten" sign and let us take multiple pictures of him. He high-fived everybody near him and announced to all of the kids and parents waiting at the bus stop that it was his first day of Kindergarten. I was feeling good, feeling positive, feeling genuinely excited, when Spence looked up at me over the corner of his Spiderman backpack, looking incredibly cute and very, very little in the oversized button-down train shirt he had chosen for his first day, and said, "Mommy, can I sit on your lap while we're waiting for the bus?" I made quick eye contact with my hubby, whose own eyes were looking a bit misty, and that was it. Big, fat tears rolling down my face. Luckily, Spence was sitting on my lap staring eagerly down the street, looking for the bus, so he didn't see my pathetically sad face. As for the loud sniffles -- I have bad Fall allergies, so he wouldn't think anything of that. As it turned out, we were the only parents with a new Kindergartener at the bus stop, so I got lots of sympathetic, knowing looks from the other Moms, and that helped to dry up my tears. Afterall, they had obviously all been through it, and they looked just fine now. More importantly, their kids looked happy, healthy, and excited to go to school.

So, that was mini-meltdown number one. Number two came in the Kindergarten classroom, itself. The school had invited all the parents to come on the first day and stay for a little while, then join the Principal and PTA members for coffee and treats in the library. The first part was great. Spence played on the playground with the other kids for a while, then he got to go inside and find his name tag, hang up his backpack, and play in the room for a bit. All was well. He was confident and happy, the other kids seemed really nice, and the other parents seemed pretty normal and friendly, overall. (There was this one, totally intense Mom, who kept trying to micro-manage the rest of us, and our children, as we put the required school supplies in their bins. I remembered her from the Kindergarten orientation in the Spring. She was the one who, when the teacher asked us to have our kids draw a picture of themselves, kept loudly tapping her pen on the paper in front of her son and saying, "Put more color in your picture! Put more detail in your picture. That's not good enough!" I've gotta say, I was hoping her kid wouldn't be in Spence's class, but it looks like our paths will have to cross from time-to-time, afterall. Super intense micro-managing Mom, meet the Mom at the opposite end of the spectrum. Meet "ChickenNuggetMama." Should be interesting...) Anyway, the teacher gathered the kids on the mat for a "good morning" song, and then addressed all of the parents in the back of the room. She told us she was going to read a story to the kids, and then she'd like us to kiss the kids goodbye and head up to the library. She also pointed out the kleenex box at the back of the room. I was the first one there. I was still feeling pretty good, but I wanted to be ready, just in case. Then, this lovely young woman, who seems like a genuinely caring and interested teacher, read a book called "The Kissing Hand." Have you read this book? It's all about a baby raccoon who is nervous about school, so the mother raccoon gives him a kiss in the center of his palm, and tells him that it will stay on his hand all day, until he sees her again after school. Brutal! I think this sweet-looking Kindergarten teacher is actually some sort of sadist who likes to see how many Moms she can make cry on the first day. She and the other Kindergarten teacher probably have some sort of competition going every year. Who can choose the sappiest book that will bring the most parents to tears? Anyway, that was the second meltdown. It only lasted a minute or two. OK, to be honest, it started when the Mommy raccoon put the kiss in the baby raccoon's hand, and the sniffles lasted as I kissed Spence (who didn't seem the least bit upset and really seemed to just want us to go away, so he could get back to the business of Kindergarten), walked down the hall, up the stairs to the library, and drank my first cup of coffee. Then, I was fine.

So, it's the end of an era, and the beginning of another. I can't wait to see what's coming....

And, to all of my wonderful friends, who called to leave me messages of encouragement and to see how I was doing on this momentous day....I love you, and I appreciate you, and I couldn't navigate these crazy Mommy waters without your help and support. Cheers!

Kindergarten Countdown

It's almost D-Day. (Or "K-Day", I guess you could say.) In 3 days, I will walk one extremely excited little boy down our block and around the corner to the school bus stop for the very first time. Gulp. Spencer is completely ecstatic and can't wait to ride the bus "Just like all the big kids, Mom!" I, on the other hand, can't help but look at him and think, "HE'S JUST A BABY! HE'S WAY TOO LITTLE TO BE ON THE BUS! THE BUS IS SO BIG! WHAT IF SOMEBODY IS MEAN TO HIM? WHAT IF HE SITS ON SOMEBODY'S GUM? WHAT IF HE ACCIDENTALLY LEAVES HIS BACKPACK ON THE BUS? HE'S SUCH A SKINNY LITTLE GUY! NOOOOOOOOO..."

I'm not really having a hard time with the whole transition to Kindergarten, itself. In fact, I'm genuinely excited for Spence and all the cool learning and new friends and fun times that lie ahead for him. It helps that he's really confident and happy and SO ready for this next step. (With that said, I'll probably be a blubbering idiot all day on Friday. All this big talk, and I'll most likely burst into big, ugly, snotty tears the second the bus drives away... Just in case, I arranged my work schedule so I wouldn't have to go in on Friday. My middle school students really don't need their counselor to be an emotional wreck that day. Doesn't inspire confidence, y'know?)

Even though I'm not too freaked out about Kindergarten, this school bus thing is a real issue for me. It's not like we have a choice, because I literally can't get Spence to Kindergarten a half-mile from our house when he's supposed to be there, then get Foster to Preschool on the northern side of town when he's supposed to be there, and finally get myself to work on the southern side of town anything close to when I'm supposed to be there. It's physically impossible. My head would explode. Seriously. I'm talking spontaneous combustion here. Nobody needs that.

Thus, the bus...

My husband thinks I'm nuts, by the way. For countless reasons, actually, but most recently because of this bus issue I'm having. "I rode the school bus every day," he says. "I loved it. I saw all my friends on the bus. We had a great time. Spencer will be fine." "Did you (sniff) ever get bullied? Did kids make fun of you? (sniff, sob, sniff) Did the bus ever go in a ditch in the winter time?" "No, honey. He'll be fine." I never rode the bus as a kid, so I don't share my husband's confidence. And, Spence is JUST A BABYYYYYY!!!...

But, I'll walk him to the bus this Friday, just so he can try it out on his first day. Then, I'll jump in the car and follow that bus to see what path it takes on its journey to Kindergarten. I'll be there to meet Spence when he arrives at school for the first time, and I'll do the "Meet & Greet" with his teacher. Then, I'll walk out the door, leaving my little guy to begin his new adventure. I might just treat myself to a skinny vanilla latte and a cheesy entertainment magazine. And, a short 3 hours later, I'll be at the bus stop to meet him when he gets off the bus after his very first day as a Kindergartener. Wow.

Cheers!

I admit it. Sometimes I wish I was Canadian...

I'm pissed off today. And, I'm mad that I'm mad, because I was planning on writing about the incredibly fun night I had with my hubby and boys yesterday. Instead, I find myself filled with frustration and needing to vent it somewhere before I can get back to focusing on all of the wonderful things in my life. Here's a disclaimer for any of my followers who might be checking in: This post is not about being a parent or a spouse or the silliness of life in an 1100 square foot house with two little boys and two big dogs. It's about being a caring, interested, and totally disgusted American today. Sorry, folks, but it's about politics. So, please feel free to stop reading. It's not my normal kind've post, that's for sure, but it's affecting me. It's on my mind, it's in my heart, as a mother and a school counselor and someone who cares about kids and who really, really wants to believe that my country is worth taking pride in. The truth is, I'm embarrassed to be a United States citizen right now. Sorry if that offends, but it's the truth. Frankly, I've been embarrassed by the actions and attitudes of my country before (maybe because I grew up in New Zealand and saw another way of doing things), but, over the last year, I've been starting to feel a sense of patriotism again. I've seen that people are working hard to do something, to change things in a positive direction, to try something different in order to get our country back on track. The in-fighting and ridiculously immature partisan bickering (on both sides) makes me want to tear my hair out and scream, "YO! All of you people who were elected by us and are getting paid a helluva lot more than I am to, supposedly, represent the needs of all Americans! Maybe you could pull your heads out and start thinking about what's good for the whole country, instead of just what's good for your own, personal, cultural, religious, ethnic, tax bracket, or the special interest groups that contribute to your campaigns, eh? How about trying THAT for a change?!!" Even with all of this adolescent political behavior, I have been able to hold my head fairly high as an American citizen over the last year, because positive changes are at least being discussed, sought, and attempted. But, the recent unexpected and ridiculous uproar over our President giving a positive, pro-education, stay-in-school message to students in as many schools as possible throughout our country, just about makes me want to pack up my little family, jump in the car, and head north. Waaaaayyyy north. Across the border into Canada, never to return. As a school counselor, and as a concerned Mom, I am shocked and embarrassed by the ignorance and shortsightedness of my fellow Americans. I cannot believe that anyone, regardless of their political affiliation, could honestly think that, in a country whose dropout rate is shockingly, and unforgivably, high, a message from the elected leader of our nation, aimed solely at inspiring all students to stick it out, to set goals, to follow their dreams, to reach for the stars, is a bad thing. Whether you agree with his politics or not, President Obama is unarguably a major American success story. What a great example to all students of all cultures that, if you face your challenges and stay with it and work hard, you can achieve great things. I'm sorry, but nobody can argue against our President being a really awesome example of what education can do for a person. At least, no sane, semi-intelligent, person, that is. Just imagine the young black high school freshman sitting in his school desk chair, thinking he can never reach his goals, hearing this message and knowing that it is going out all over the country. You can do it. You can achieve. You can succeed. Regardless of your family background, your gender, your culture, or the color of your skin. You can achieve, and getting your education is the path to success. What about so many young female students, who are still getting the message that getting married and having babies is all they should aspire to? Well, think about the power of a pro-education message from the leader of our country on those girls. A leader who has a highly educated, well-respected, amazing spouse and two daughters. Think about it. I could go on and on and on..... Think about the kids with single parents or non-traditional families. Think about the kids who may be gang-affiliated or drug-involved, and who are ready to give up on education all together. This message has the power to reach kids who may not have been reached before, and to inspire them to stay in school. Why? Because the person delivering it made it all the way to the White House, and he's saying that education is the way to achieve your dreams. Isn't that what every caring parent wants for their child? It's not about being a democrat, or a republican, or a libertarian, or anything else on the political spectrum. It's about kids getting an education so they can become whatever they want to be. So every child will have more opportunity and freedom and self-respect. So every child can learn to question what is happening in the world and maybe figure out ways to make it better. We teach our children about global citizenship. We teach them about government, and civil service, and giving back to their community. We teach them critical thinking skills, so they can make educated decisions in the future. What are we teaching them if we say, "Sorry, honey. I don't want you to listen to what our President has to say about staying in school, because I don't agree with his health care reform package." Give me a break! This isn't about you, or me, or our personal political agendas or belief systems. It's about empowering kids. If we can't come together on an issue as important as kids and education, perhaps our society really is doomed. It infuriates and disgusts and depresses me. I work so hard to inspire my students to stick with it, and to keep trying, even when it seems impossibly difficult. I try, desperately sometimes, to find ways to reach kids who are seemingly unreachable and to help them see that education is a tool to get them where they really want to be in life. I was ecstatic when I heard that this President was going to do what only a few have done in the past. And that is, for this one hour, to use his power and his position, not to forward political agendas or solve disputes in foreign countries or try to bring bipartisanship to Washington DC, but to inspire our children. American children. To learn. To grow. To move forward. To face adversity and to use education to achieve their dreams. What could be wrong with that? If his message only reaches one child and inspires that one child to stay in school, it will be worth it. And, I don't care if that child has democratic parents, republican parents, disinterestd parents, or no parents at all. It will be worth it. And, every single President should do this every year from now on. Because, if you don't believe that your Presidential power should be used to inspire children -- the very future of our country -- to reach for their dreams and to get a good education, then you should never have run for President in the first place.

OK, I feel better after getting all of that out. If you disagree, I welcome your comments. If you are as angry and frustrated as I am, I welcome those as well. And, if I offended, sorry, but this is my blog, so I get to say what I want. Now, I'm going to go kiss and hug my little boys. Cheers!

Oh, that's right -- I have a "real" job, too!

Tomorrow, I officially go back to my other job. (As opposed to my ongoing job, known as "Mommy, Wife, Bill-Payer, Housekeeper, Educator, Dog-Poop-Picker-Upper, Maker-of-all-Important-Appointments, and Family Cook", among other titles.) This job is one that pays me in money, rather than in hugs and kisses (although I occasionally get those, too). This job is one that allows me to step outside of my own life and problems for a while, and to focus on helping others deal with their personal challenges. And, this job is one that makes me feel competent, in control, appreciated, and fulfills me in a completely different way than "Mommy". For about 10 months out of every year, my second job is working half-time as a Certified School Counselor in a middle school. I love my job. I really, really do. Like any job, it has politics, paperwork, long meetings, and other frustrating aspects. But, I love helping these kids, whose minds and bodies are in a constant state of chaos and confusion, overcome the obstacles that are in their way. I love helping frustrated, scared, stressed-out parents navigate these tricky years and adjust to their childrens' rocky entrance into adolescence. I love working with caring, motivated, dedicated teachers to figure out how to work with kids who need extra support and ideas and unique ways of being reached. And, I believe that, for me, being a working Mom has made me a better Mom and a more fulfilled, happy person, overall. (Wow, I'm sounding kind've New-Agey here, aren't I?) With that said, I face this yearly transition from summer vacation back to work with mixed feelings (primarily GUILT, in spite of the fact that this isn't simply a choice -- it's a financial necessity). I look at the beautiful faces of my sons, and I know that there will be fewer hours in each day spent playing with them, reading with them, having tickle fights with them, teaching them, learning from them, ooh-ing and aah-ing over gross things with them, and laughing with them. On the other hand, there will also be fewer time-outs, fewer instances of losing my mind because they will not stop poking each other every time I turn my back, fewer times when I face a long, rainy day with them and am completely out of ideas as to how to keep us all sane for the next 12 hours... And, I know that my little guys (Foster in the preschool he loves, and Spencer starting - gulp - kindergarten) will be learning new things, having new adventures, making new friendships, developing crucial social skills, and becoming more independent. These are all things any parent wants for their kids, right? SIGH. Doesn't make it any easier to head back to work on that first day. But, I will say this... When I am working, the hours I spend with my boys are more full of adventures, more full of play, and more flat-out fun. Yes, the quality of my housekeeping declines dramatically during the school year. I mean, who wants to spend the short amount of time you have with your kids cleaning, when you could be kicking a ball around in the backyard, or going for a walk, or looking at bugs under a microscope, or playing Pirates? Yes, during the school year we have more dinnertime peanut butter and jelly sandwich picnics and fewer family meals that involve actual cooking. And, yes, I appreciate every smooch, every hug, every tickle fight, every wonderful, creative thought expressed, every story, and every "I love you more than you love me, Mommy," that much more. So, I guess I'm looking forward to work starting up again, afterall. (Except for the 4 boxes full of work stuff I optimistically brought home to work on this summer and haven't opened yet!) Ah, well... For now, my boys and I are off to the playground, to spend our last day of summer playing, laughing, and loving every moment together. Cheers!

Making The Perfect Blackberry Pie

Anybody who really knows me looked at the title of this post and thought, "What the hell? What is Beth doing writing about pie?!!! She only knows how to cook the same 5 things over and over and over again, and she never bakes unless it's cookies made out of that cookie dough that comes already mixed up in the grocery store or a birthday cake from a box! Something is not right here..." All true, I'm afraid. Part of the reason my blog is called Chicken Nugget Mama, in fact. In my house, cereal is a legitimate dinner entree. So are peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. (And, not just legitimate entrees, but frequent ones.) For more details about my endless inadequacies when it comes to feeding my kids, you might want to check out: "Don't tell ME ketchup doesn't count as a vegetable!" So, what could I ever possibly have to say about making a blackberry pie that would actually benefit someone trying to bake one? A lot, actually. If you follow the recipe, below, you are guaranteed to eat the best pie you've ever eaten...My promise to you.

Ingredients:
1) 2 little boys who really, really, really want to pick wild blackberries on a hot, late-summer day -- "For a pie, Mommy, for a pie!"
2) A husband who loves blackberries, loves pie, and who happens to have seen a bunch of wild blackberry bushes loaded with berries just the other day.
3) A blackberry pie recipe found by googling "Easy blackberry pie" that calls for pre-made pie dough, flour, sugar, butter, blackberries, a little bit of milk, and tapioca for thickening. That's it. 7 ingredients. Totally doable, even for someone as inept in a kitchen as myself.

Directions:
1) Pack juice boxes, snacks, and toys in the car, because the boys are going to get sick of picking blackberries looooong before you have come close to having enough for a pie.
2) Dress your family in long sleeves and long pants, because wild blackberry bushes are extremely thorny. Note: Do NOT wear those flimsy pants made out of waterproof material that act as a kind of a rain/wind guard you can wear over your shorts or sweats. Guess what? The thorns go RIGHT through them! I have the scars to prove it, and my blackberry picking sounded a lot like this: "Ooooooh, I found the motherlode! Ow! Ouch! Owie! Ouch!" "Hey, sweetie, this bush is loaded with 'em. Bet I'm gonna fill up my container faster than you! Woohoo! Ouch! Ow! Ow! Crap! Ouch!" "Honey, do you think all this blood will make the pie taste funny?" "OUCH!"
3) Spend a good hour or so picking blackberries together. Throw in some singing, some tickling, lots of laughing, some kissing and hugging with your hubby, and make sure to eat almost as many blackberries as you pick, until your lips and tongue are bright purple and berry juice is dripping down your chin.
4) Stop at the store on the way home to get the pie crust and tapioca. Since you don't actually know what tapioca really is (it is not pudding, by the way) spend a long time cruising the isles too embarrassed to ask anyone for help, until you stumble upon it on a top shelf in the baking section, next to a variety of other items you've never heard of. Being somewhat loopy already, from picking berries in the hot sun and consuming all that natural sugar, have a mini giggling fit in the store. Always good for the amusement (or derision) of the other shoppers...
5) Arrive home and get all of the ingredients together and ready to go.
6) Realize that you forgot to get vanilla ice cream to put on the freshly-made pie. Offer to take one of the boys to get the ice cream if hubby and boy #2 will do the actual baking. (SCORE!) Spend an extra 20 minutes in the store, grabbing all the other general grocieries you need, thereby assuring that the pie will be almost ready by the time you return with the ice cream.
7) Return home to the smell of freshly-baked blackberry pie wafting throughout the house.
8) Sit down with the 3 people you love most in the world, each with a heaping helping of freshly made blackberry pie, loaded with vanilla ice cream and whipped cream, and a glass of fresh, cold milk.
9) Participate in an all-around family high-five complete with a loud group cheer. "Woo Hoo!"
10) Dig in to a pie that was truly a family project. A pie that, while a teeny bit runny (probably needed a little more of that tapioca stuff), was quite gorgeous and very, very tasty. And a pie, in which the most important ingredients of all, were laughter and love.

Best. Damn. Pie. Ever.

Cheers!

Hey, Mommy, I can see that lady's underwear!

I think yesterday must've been "National Show-Your-Butt-Crack Day." Seriously. My husband, children, and I were subjected to more buttock cleavage in one trip to Costco than I typically run into in an entire semester of counseling in a middle school. (And that's saying a lot, people. Trust me on that one... ) First, there was the 20-something woman sitting at a lunch table right behind my husband, wearing low-rider jeans, with her entire pink Joe Boxer thong visible to the world (and to my youngest son, who was absolutely fascinated by the spectacle). Then, two tables over, there was the well-rounded, 50-something woman, perched on the very edge of her seat with, literally, three-fourths of her ample rear end displayed for all in line at the registers to see, resulting in my older son making the comment that became the title of this post. But, that's not all, folks. Cruising through the store, making sure to hit all the yummy free samples to supplement our lunch, we were subjected to the sight of a middle-aged, portly gentleman bending over the CD/DVD table, his pants just-not-quite-covering his posterior. This was followed by the hand-in-hand teenagers walking in front of us. Her: Sweat pants pulled down extra low, so her underwear (clearly chosen for a certain effect) was pointedly displayed. Him: The same. Nice boxers, dude. Hope you don't have to run anywhere with the crotch of your jeans down at your knees like that. Yeah, good luck if the store catches on fire. It really was one giant butt-fest shopping trip for our little family. And, hey, it's not like anybody who knows me would ever describe me as "easily-offended" or "prim and proper". I just think that people's underwear, and the body parts it covers, should generally be displayed privately, and only with a select, well-chosen few. And, I really don't think my little boys, barely turned 4 and 5, need to be seeing strange, naked butt cheeks in the store, when all we're trying to do is buy some milk and potstickers, y'know? Still, it was kind've good for a giggle. Ahhhhh, life...Cheers!

Miracles DO Happen (or Bribery Works)!

Yes, I bribed them with the promise of a treat at Dairy Queen. Yes, I continue to bribe them with promises of "Fifteen kisses each!" from Daddy when he gets home tonight. Yes, there are parenting "experts" around the world who shudder in revulsion at using bribery to control your child's behavior. And, yes, to these experts I say: "Screw it! It worked today, and that's all that matters right now!" I have spent the last 12 1/2 hours alone with my two little boys, which is, unfortunately, the norm around here thanks to hubby's truly sucky schedule. (I know "sucky" isn't a real word, but it's another one of those that really should be, eh?) Anyway, today my boys and I have had two sword fights, multiple tickle fights, two games of "Mommy, you're a bear. Come and chase us!", a trip to the playground for a picnic and general frolicking, a trip to Fred Meyer for groceries and other stuff, one Disney movie, some coloring, some story reading, and a (highly successful, for once) spaghetti dinner ALL WITHOUT ONE SINGLE TIME-OUT! For anyone reading this who isn't a close friend or family member and, therefore, hasn't witnessed the constant chaos that is life in our little home, this is truly a miraculous occurrence. It means there was no hitting (!), only minimal name-calling (immediately followed by an apology), and very little competition over toys, my attention, or anything else in the house. Nobody burst into tears today. Nobody threw a hissy fit today. (Not even me!) Nobody ended up bleeding or bruised or with a stick in his eye today. And what, you may ask, brought about this miracle? Bribery. The image of a Dairy Queen treat floating around their little minds all day. And, what is keeping the miracle going, now that we are back from DQ and starting the bedtime routine? More bribery. Tons of extra kisses from Daddy when he gets home from work and hears the good news! (Daddy just might be getting something else tonight too, because Mommy's feeling GREAT after this unusually calm day...) So, to all those Moms who somehow manage to have wonderfully well-behaved little kids without ever resorting to the use of bribery -- I salute you. You are no doubt much better mothers than I will ever be, and I wish I knew all of your mysterious parenting secrets. But, to the rest of us, who use bribery from time-to-time to save our sanity -- Cheers!

Marshmallow goo, yellow jacket swarms, and other camping mayhem.

We just survived (and thoroughly enjoyed, actually) our very first whole family camping trip. Woo hoo! (I'm not counting backyard camping, which we've done a couple of times as a "warm-up" for the real thing. I highly recommend that, actually, as a way to see if your kids are really ready. It's a nice gauge of whether or not your kids are going to be the type that all of your camping neighbors detest, because they cry all night in the tent without a night light. Also, it gives you a chance to teach your little ones how to roast marshmallows without setting them -- or themselves, the dogs, or their brother's shirt -- on fire in the process.) So, last week, we packed waaaaaayyyyy more stuff than we needed (I'm one of those anal-retentive types who tries to think of absolutely every single scenario that could happen and packs accordingly, resulting in comments like, "Honey, do you really, really think we need to bring rain coats, rain boots and the waterproof matches? It's supposed to be 89 degrees all week." Whatever, babe. "It rides for free", as my dear ol' Dad always says, and you'll be thanking me when it starts pouring. Which it didn't, by the way...), added one four-year-old-boy, one five-year-old-boy, two big, slobbery, extremely excited mutts, and took off for our campsite, roughly 3 hours away. About 4 1/2 hours later, we arrived at our campsite --After one lunch break, two potty stops, and one stop just so Mommy and Daddy could get a coffee, get the hell out of the car, take a deep breath, and stop themselves from screaming, "If we have to tell you ONE MORE TIME to stop fighting, we are turning this car around and going home!!!" (Something that's very risky to say, because then you have to follow through with your threat, y'know? And we really, really wanted to camp.) Thanks to my overly thorough packing, my boys had tons of toys to keep them occupied while John and I set up camp. Of course, it took them no time at all to abandon their toys and find sticks they could use to hit every stump, rock, and tree trunk in the near vicinity. Whatever. They kept themselves occupied with minimal parental attention and only a few time-outs for hitting each other, rather than an inanimate object. And then the fun began...Actually, the fun didn't begin for me until after I found a bathroom, which you could only get to by winding around a road to the right, taking another right at the next stopsign, then a left, and finally heading past an orange cone, up a little driveway between two campsites. Meanwhile, the boys (all 3 of them) just pee'd by a tree behind our tent. There just wasn't quite enough bush/tree coverage for me to be comfortable doing the same. One of the disadvantages of being female, I guess. I made that bathroom trek, all alone, many, many, many times over the course of our camping trip. SIGH.

My trip highlights: Swimming and playing frisbee with the boys in the icy cold, crystal-clear lake. It was take-your-breath-away-cold at first, but, once you were submerged, it was glorious. Watching my 12-year-old dog, Cosmo, act like a puppy again. I know the old guy won't be around much longer, so it was wonderful to see him having so much fun with our other dog, Lucy -- frolicking and digging and splashing in the water. Roasting marshmallows by the campfire. The boys were so excited and covered with marshmallow goo. Reading bedtime stories and singing songs in the tent, by lantern light, with one giggly little boy snuggled up on each side. Sitting by the fire with my head in my sweetie's lap, watching shooting stars and just talking. No distractions. No electronics. Just the two of us, reconnecting and remembering why we fell in love in the first place. Awesome. Making the hike to the bathroom in the pitch dark, with Spencer holding the flashlight and repeating over and over and over again, "I'm not scared of anything, Mommy. I'm not scared of anything..." Chipmunks that were so tame they'd come right up to you, look you in the eye, and basically demand that you feed them, or else fearlessly jump in your car to rummage through your garbage. Dodging yellow jackets. OK, it's not exactly a highlight, but it was a fact of this trip, and it bears noting (and remembering, for future camping trips). Bee season. Yellow jackets everywhere. One thing I hadn't actually prepared for at all (yellow jackets don't mind citronella candles -- I think they actually like them), so we spent the entire trip hoping no one would be stung. Amazingly, no one was. Speaking of yellow jackets, another highlight was eating a picnic-on-the-floor breakfast in the tent on our last morning to avoid attracting them. We had a bunch of those mini boxes of sugary cereal that come in all different flavors -- A tradition from camping with my family when I was a kid. The boys were over-the-moon to be able to eat the kind of cereal we almost never eat at home. And, I had forgotten how yummy Honey Smacks and Fruit Loops really are. There's a reason kids like 'em. Frankly, they're delicious! Stopping for a picnic lunch on the way home at a closed-up ski resort on the mountain, and then stopping again just to play by a beautiful mountain river at the base of a waterfall. Watching my hubby and boys throwing sticks ("boats") into the little rapids and crawling all over the rocks and boulders, my dogs happily digging in the sand, and just soaking up the beauty of the whole scene. Oh, and there was enough coverage for me to pee in the woods without risk of being seen, so I truly had the entire nature experience!

We came home thoroughly exhausted, totally filthy, covered with unexplained scratches and bruises, and completely happy. We are SO camping again next summer! Cheers!

WOW!

So, a few minutes ago, I got back from a rare coffee escape with a friend, and my littlest guy (age 4) was bursting to tell me something he "discovered" while I was gone. He could hardly contain himself, he was so excited. As it turns out, during the hour I was away trying to recapture my sanity, Foster and Daddy were playing around with our alphabet refrigerator magnets, and Fos discovered (with Daddy's help) that if you turn the word "WOW" upside down, it spells "MOM". This was apparently an earth-shattering discovery worthy of dancing up and down, flapping hands with excitement, and squealing with glee. And, y'know, when I really thought about it, with all we mothers do to nurture, stimulate, educate, entertain, and love our kids, it's actually pretty darn cool that "MOM"="WOW" and "WOW"="MOM." That's as it should be. We rock, ladies. We rock. Cheers!

There IS intelligent life in the universe, and it was in my kitchen last night!

Last night was my monthly book club gathering, and it was just in time! Just in time to remind me that, yes, I am still capable of holding my own in an intelligent conversation with bright, accomplished, insightful women. As it turns out, none of the fabulous ladies in my book club have little kids anymore. So, being the only one who is currently immersed in Candyland, Curious George, time-outs, peanut-butter-and-jelly, Dr. Seuss, and general little-boy chaos on a daily basis, I sometimes worry that, in our monthly get-togethers, I will suddenly start rhyming my words, or say something infantile like, "Excuse me, where's your potty? I have to go pee-pee."

Our book last month was "The Nine: Inside the Secret Lives of Supreme Court Justices", and it was fascinating and terrifying and inspiring, and we all agreed that we felt smarter after reading it. And, I am happy to report, I participated in a stimulating discussion about politics and justice and special interest groups and human rights, and I didn't rhyme my words even once!

And now, it's back to my normal life. But, first, I have to go pee-pee. Cheers!

I Really Need "Blogging for Dummies". Please help!

OK, if anybody's reading this -- I am in serious need of some blogging help. I've searched through Blogspot's HELP topics, and I just get more confused than ever. I look at other blogs out there, and they all look so gorgeous and put-together and organized and tech-savvy. I'm so impressed! Seriously. We have so many really wonderful, creative, intelligent women in our world, don't we? Unfortunately, at least when it comes to blogging, I don't appear to be one of them. Just a fan. So many things about blogging truly mystify me. Everyone who knows me well knows that I'm pretty much a techno-phobe and they are all incredibly amazed that I'm actually joining the 21st century and blogging, so I deserve props for that. However, there are some things I really can't figure out, and I'd love a little advice: 1) What the hell is a "blogroll", and why do I need one? I somehow figured out how to put one on my site (following Blogspot's directions), but then I didn't know what to do with it, so I took it off. Is it different than the thingie I have on here where I put in the addresses of some of the blogs I follow regularly? Does it operate itself, or am I supposed to put something in there? Does it automatically put in all the blogs I visit, 'cuz that would be seriously cool. Help! 2) Several people have commented that they can't find a place to email me on my blog. Yeah, that's 'cuz I have no idea how to do that either. 3) Most of the blogs I visit have this thing where they can link back to a previous post, if it's related, or they can write in the name of somebody else who has a blog on their post, and readers can just click on it to go over to their site. You know what I'm talking about? I want that! It's "wicked cool", as my boys would say. OK, last question (for now): One of my readers nominated me for an award (Thanks so much, by the way. You really made my day!), and I was supposed to somehow link that award back to my site and answer some questions and then nominate another blogger. You know, pay it forward to someone else to make their day? Well, I couldn't figure out how the heck to put it on my own blog and link it. In fact, I really don't know how to link anything. I'm not even totally sure what a "link" is. I know, I'm pathetic. Really, a sad case. I'm nothing more than a Mom with a burning desire to put my thoughts down on the computer and send them out into the universe. I'd just like to do it better. Thanks for listening. Cheers!

P.S. Just a little life tip from today: If you ask someone (say, your sister) for some of her contact solution so you can rinse your contact off before going out -- don't automatically assume that the bottle she gives you is actually contact solution. It could, for example, be enzyme cleaner (which looks a lot like the regular contact solution) that is only supposed to be used to clean contacts overnight, needs 6 hours to neutralize, and is NEVER, EVER, EVER supposed to be used for contacts that are just going to be rinsed and put right back in your eye. It's a surprising and excrutiating experience, and it results in an eye that is so scary red and swollen that it frightens away little children (not to mention the cute waiter at the restaurant). Not pretty!

I waaaant myyyyyy Mommmmmyyyyyyyyyyy!!!

No, that isn't the cry of one of my little darlings. It's me. I'm sick. I feel absolutely crappy. I woke up with a fever and a sore throat and body aches and glands the size of ping-pong balls. So, I lay in bed at 6:00am kinda hoping that my boys would wake up sick as well, so that we could all just lie around watching Disney movies all day and drinking apple juice. Does that make me a bad Mommy? I mean, seriously, hoping your kids will feel as lousy as you do? There's gotta be something wrong with me! The thing is, when my boys are both healthy, and I'm sick, it's just one giant train wreck trying to keep them entertained, exercised, and fed for an entire day by myself. Especially since my focus is all out-of-whack when I don't feel good. (Today, I put a gallon of milk in the cupboard with the pasta and put an empty pot in the refrigerator. Oh, and I also left the back gate open and both dogs escaped into the neighborhood. I didn't even know they were gone until my neighbor showed up with one dog and told me the other one had just run off around the corner, and I had to go find him in my pajamas, because I didn't have the energy to put real clothes on myself or my boys today. SIGH.) And, unlike many of my friends whose mothers or mothers-in-law are available at a moment's notice to come and take over when Mommy isn't feeling good, my own Mom lives too far away to do anything other than offer sympathy on the telephone and say, "Oh, honey, I WISH I could be there to help you." Me too, Mom. Love you. Wish you were here to tuck me in and bring me tea and say, "Now boys, leave your Mommy alone, so she can get some sleep." So, when I'm ill, I just kind've go through the motions and somehow manage to make it to the end of the day, get my little guys down for the night, and collapse on my bed. Fully clothed. With my contacts still in. Ouch. Anyway, I lay in bed this morning, feeling clammy and crummy, waiting for my guys to awaken. And, at 6:15am, I found out exactly what I would be dealing with today. Not two sick little boys. Not two healthy little boys. One of each. Absolute worst case scenario. One boy with enough energy to power a small town. One boy feeling so yucky that all he wanted to do was cling to me in his feverish delirium and have every single itty bitty need taken care of by Mommy. Oh, and he also didn't want his healthy brother touching him, smiling at him, "making big eyes" at him, laughing anywhere near him, playing anywhere near him, or pretty much existing in his universe. He just wanted me. And all I wanted was my bed. But all three of us made it through the day, somehow. Both boys are snoozing away in their bunk beds. The dogs are safely back home and snoozing on the living room floor. My dear hubby just walked in from work with a movie (which I fully intend to sleep through), AND he's off work for the next 2 days, so I can get a Mommy respite and hopefully ditch this lousy bug. That is, unless my husband and other son get the bug too. Then, no matter how sick I may be, I will be taking care of THREE boys, all by myself. I waaaaaaaant myyyyyyyyy Mommmmmmmyyyyyyy.... Cheers!

Take one dose of Meryl Streep and call me in the morning!

A couple of months ago or so, I wrote about "Finding the happy" -- a family philosophy from waaaay back for dealing with life's troubles (big and small) and coming out OK in the end. Well, this could be called "Finding the Happy, Part Two", because I have discovered something that makes me just as happy as sitting on my porch swing reading a good book. Meryl. Yes, Meryl "The Wonderful" Streep. I have always admired the way she transforms herself for a role and makes you absolutely believe in her character. I mean, really, her skills as an actress are undeniable. Sophie's Choice, Out of Africa, The River Wild, The Manchurian Candidate, Postcards From the Edge... The list goes on and on. Her performances have thrilled me, moved me, made me think, and thoroughly entertained me. But, when it comes to "Finding the Happy", nothing beats Mamma Mia and, as of this afternoon, Julie & Julia. I went to see Julie & Julia with some girlfriends today, and I haven't laughed that hard and felt that genuinely happy watching a movie in ages. Seriously, I was clapping my hands together with joy like a 9-year-old girl throughout the whole thing. I'm sure I was embarrassing my friends, but at least they could pretend I was just some strange woman, with poor social boundaries, who had sat down next to them in the theater. Anyway, I think that Meryl just glows with life and vivacity and something uniquely "Meryl". Both of these movies are just one big celebration of living and loving and being happy in your own skin (and it doesn't hurt that everybody seems to be drinking wine throughout, which is a little something that always adds to my personal happiness as well). I find it impossible to feel bad about anything while watching either of these life-affirming movies. Meryl, an over-50, average-sized woman, who seems to be bucking the plastic surgery/botox trend and actually aging gracefully, shows her audiences that beauty transcends body-type or wrinkles, and she is absolute living proof that every woman is lovable, is sexy, and is worth celebrating. I just love her! I can't wait until Julie & Julia comes out on DVD, because it will go right next to Mamma Mia in my movie drawer. And, speaking of Mamma Mia, as soon as my little guys are in bed tonight, I'm putting it in the DVD player, pouring myself a glass of Cabernet, and thoroughly embracing the joyful feelings Meryl's luminous performance brings out in me. To life -- whatever it brings! To love -- in all of its forms! To Meryl -- who helps me appreciate it all! Cheers!

Awwwwwwwww...

Oh man, I had a major "awwwwww" moment driving my kids to Preschool today. So cute, I had to write it down. (Seriously. If you easily go into sugar-shock, you might want to skip this one. It's that sweet. You could vomit.) Bear with me, because there's a little back story to this: Both of my boys are mildly obsessed with Super Heroes. Now, considering that I'm a television Nazi and won't let my kids watch anything that isn't G-rated, with the occasional PG-rating (as long as it's been pre-screened and approved by moi), my boys haven't really seen much Super Hero action. But, exposure is unavoidable. Super Heroes are everywhere, right? Pajamas, T-shirts, lunch boxes, story books, etc., so the boys get the concept and think it's all very exciting and dramatic and fun. Anyway, we've spent some time discussing the concept of "hero", and I've always told them that you don't need super powers to be a hero. All you have to do to be a real hero is to be kind, to look out for others, to stand up against bullying and mean behavior, and to help people whenever you can. (Boring Mom-talk, right?) My boys would much rather be heroes by flying into burning buildings and putting the fire out with their super-breath or their incredibly fast wind-generating super-spins, or by doing anything that would allow them to cause great physical harm to "bad guys." Still, I'm laying the groundwork by talking about the more realistic aspects of being a hero, don't you think? The second half of this back story is the boys' natural curiosity about their parents' jobs. My husband, after being laid off from the real estate industry, was fortunate enough to get a position as a city transit bus driver. (The work is interesting and social, and he was surprised to find out that he really enjoys it. The hours, for lack of a more descriptive word, suck!) Anyway, his job is kind of a no-brainer for the boys to understand, right? They see buses all over town, they ride on them from time-to-time, they know Daddy is a driver, and they think it's a "wicked cool" job. My position as a middle school counselor is a bit harder for their little brains to grasp. I've explained it as best as I can, they know that I help kids who are having a tough time, they've visited me at work and seen "the big, big kids" at my school, but I've never thought that they really get the whole concept of what I do in my job. So, I was driving the boys to Preschool this morning, and we were talking about different jobs people do, when my oldest little guy, Spencer, suddenly piped up, "Mommy, I know exactly, for sure, what I'm going to do when I grow up." "Oh, really?" said I. "Yup, I sure do, Mommy. I'm going to be a school counselor just like you, because I want to be a hero too."

How sweet is that? I'm getting misty again just writing about it. So, vomit if you must, but you have to apprecate what a great moment that was, eh? Wishing all Mommies everywhere more moments just like that one. Cheers!

"Also me."

My four-year-old son is hilarious in more ways than I can count. Here is just one of the myriad things he does that cracks me up on a daily basis. Instead of saying, "Me too" when he agrees with somebody, my little guy says, "Also me." He's always done that. I have no idea where he picked it up, but ever since he started talking, he's chosen that particular phrase. It's so funny to look at my stocky, grubby, feisty, little guy, with bandaids on his knees and dirt in his hair, and hear those formal-sounding words coming out of his mouth. He's like a proper English gentleman or something. "Also me, my good man. Kindly pass me my apple juice, and, by the way, do you have any Grey Poupon?" Of course, the facade of the proper little gentleman shatters when the conversation between he and his big brother so frequently goes something like this: "I really, really, really love taking showers." "Also me." "And, I really, really, love Mommy and Daddy." "Also me." "And I really, really, really, love ice cream." "Also me, Poop-Head." SIGH.

Cheers!

Just when you think it's safe to go to the bathroom...

One day, shortly after becoming a mother to two little boys (born just shy of 13 months apart), I had a sudden and powerful thought: "It 's going to be years before I will ever be able to go to the bathroom by myself again." Now, I'm not talking about those mach speed emergency dashes to the bathroom that all Moms are able to complete in under 30 seconds while one child is securely strapped into the high chair and the other is just as securely strapped into the baby swing (and with the bathroom door wide open and ears on alert for the slightest sound of a little one gagging or coughing or tipping over the high chair). Those insanely fast bathroom trips we all must take from time-to-time, or suffer the consequence of eternal bladder infections, are not what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about a nice, sit-down with a magazine that you actually get to read while you're in there. (Well, not the whole thing, but at least one article!) You know what I'm talking about. The kind of bathroom breaks our spouses/significant others/partners seem to be able to fit in at least once a day (especially right after arriving home, after you've spent 9 hours listening to: "He hit me! I'm hungry. Mom! MOM! He touched me! Quit touching me! Hey, Mom, the dog threw up on the carpet again. I'm thirsty. He poked me! Mooooommmmmmyyyyyy........" and need nothing more than to immediately hand over the kids, pour yourself a tall glass of Cabernet, and collapse on any piece of furniture that doesn't have a child or a dog anywhere near it). Anyway, I had this realization about bathroom privacy being a thing of the past, and I dealt with it. I dealt with it pretty well, actually, because I knew that there was a light at the end of this particular tunnel. There will come a time, I told myself, when I will have bathroom breaks again. A time when I won't have to be so obsessively worried that, while I'm in the bathroom reading about the latest anti-wrinkle cream I apparently should have been applying regularly since the age of 20 (oops), one of my boys will fall and crack his lip open on the corner of the coffee table, or drink all the slobbery dog water, or draw all over the walls with crayons (all things which have happened in my house, by the way). Or simply a time when one, or both, of my boys has outgrown the need to accompany me literally every single place I go. That simple thought kept me going for the last several years: "Someday I will have a bathroom break again!" As it turns out, today was not that day. SIGH. Today, while my boys were building block towers in the living room, I thought it would be safe to visit the bathroom for a bit all by myself. I was even optimistic enough to bring a book with me. I should've known better. All seemed well at first. I could hear the boys talking and giggling (and throwing blocks at one another). Then, I heard a noise that sounded a lot like a big moth being zapped by a bug zapper. I listened carefully, and I heard it again. Zap, zap, zap. Well, since we don't have a bug zapper or any toy which replicates the sound of a bug zapper, I launched myself off the pot, out the bathroom door, and flew into the living room in time to see my 4-year old spraying Oxi-Clean directly into the T.V., which was flashing on and off, producing an unpleasant burning odor, and making the aforementioned zapping sound, while my 5-year old danced around with my feather duster happily shouting, "We're cleaning the house for you, Mommy!" With adrenaline shooting through my body, I hollered something along the lines of, "Get out the back door -- the T.V.'s going to catch on fire!!!", grabbed the T.V. cords and unplugged them from the wall, called the dogs, and ran outside to join my boys on the back porch, thanking my lucky stars that my little guy hadn't been electrocuted and hoping my house wasn't about to burn down. Once I knew that everything was OK (except our T.V., which is now officially deceased), I began the lecture (not for the first time, by the way) about not getting into the cleaning supplies, being safe, asking before touching anything like that, blah, blah, blah....As an aside, I do keep my Oxi-Clean and other cleaning supplies HIGH up in our cleaning closet. Apparently, my boys have discovered that they can clamber straight up the shelves like monkeys to reach whatever the heck they want to get their grubby little hands on. So, perhaps it's still a bit too soon for relaxing bathroom breaks. But, I will continue to look forward to that day, sometime in the not-too-distant future...I hope. Cheers!