Zits? Are you kidding me?!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

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

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

Denial of what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, we left town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

There's no place like...bed!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Ah, my bed.

Cheers!

Still pooping? Still? Really? STILL pooping?

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

Cheers!

I want to be like George!

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

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

I want to be like George.

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BUT...

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

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

At least until we start another day...

Cheers!

Hakuna Mutata!

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

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

Cheers!

Our kids will read about this in their history books!

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

Not my most shining moment as a Mom...

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

It's St. Patrick's Day?

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

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

Sigh.

Times sure have changed.

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

Wow, what a gig!

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

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

Where can I get a job like that?

Cheers!

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

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

But, today was a bit much...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

Branch vs. Eyeball? The branch won.

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

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

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

I know. I told you it was crazy.

Cheers!

Crazy bus stop Mom, please get your act together!

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

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

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

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

Whose voice is that?

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

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

Who knew?

Parenthood is so weird...

Cheers!

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

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

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

Surgery day:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

Anybody else ever had anything like this happen?

Ya gotta love teenagers!

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

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

Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.

Cheers!

All right, dirt. I admit defeat.

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

"Going Zen"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

MY PLANET IS NOT YOUR ASHTRAY!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think this qualifies as "Too Much Information"

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

Hmmm....Thanks for sharing.

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just hope it works.

Cheers!

One to remember...

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

Here's what I overheard...

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer: "Yeah. Shot. Not shit."

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

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

Listen up "Parking Lot People", listen up!

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

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

Cheers!

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

Fake it 'til you make it!

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

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

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

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

New Year's Resolutions? Not. Gonna. Do. It.

I love New Year's. It's like a do-over, a fresh start, an optimistic and hopeful beginning...I like to look back on the past year's triumphs and tragedies, to remember all the laughter and craziness, to feel good about surviving the hard stuff, and to think about the adventures that lie ahead in the new year...

But, I think resolutions are a total crock.

With apologies to those of you who sincerely make them and believe in them every year, most people I talk to about New Year's resolutions say things like, "Oh, I know I'll never actually stick to my resolutions, but it's worth a try," or "Every single year I make resolutions to better myself, but I never actually follow through." It's like setting yourself up to fail and to feel even crappier than you already do about whatever's bugging you about yourself or your life.

Over the last week or so, I have really paid attention as women of all shapes, sizes, ages, ethnicities, and belief systems, from friends near and far, to total strangers in line at the grocery store, have talked about their resolutions for 2010. About how THIS year, they are absolutely going to lose that extra 15 pounds, or be more outgoing, or be quieter and more self-reflective, or get a boob job, or start using that expensive wrinkle cream, or stop dating losers, or...whatever. The list is endless. And, it seems like most resolutions are about fixing something we see as being wrong with us. We're too fat. Too thin. Too shy. Too loud. Too old. Not rich enough. Not loved enough. Unhappily single. Unhappily married. House too small. House too empty. Alone too often. Not alone enough. Hate our hair. Hate our thighs. Too much responsibility. Not enough self-respect. Breasts too big. Breasts too small. Breasts too saggy. Etc, etc, etc... The list is endless. I mean, we women beat ourselves up for all sorts of things, don't we?

Why is it we are so hard on ourselves? You can blame the media, which bombards us with images of impossibly thin, impossibly beautiful, impossibly pore-less women, who are able to effortlessly juggle partners, children, and jobs, all while looking gorgeous in a miniskirt and high heels, with their luxurious waves of hair softly blowing in the breeze, as symbols of femininity and sensuality and success. You can blame all the a--holes who leave their loyal wives after years of marriage and support and child-rearing for some cute young thing with perky breasts and the IQ of a yam. You can blame our long, long world history of male domination and female servitude. You can blame religion. You can blame lack of religion. You can put the blame wherever you want to. But, we hold some responsibility too, don't we? Every time we make a New Year's resolution designed to help us conform to some societal or idealogical view of who we are supposed to be, or how we are supposed to look, or what our lives are supposed to be like, aren't we also to blame? Hmmmm...

So, with all that in mind, rather than resolving to exercise 5 times a week, or to make more home-cooked meals, or to watch less TV... I'm just going to cut myself some slack. To give myself a break. To quit trying to be better than I am. I'm going to focus on appreciating all the really unique, special, crazy things about myself and my life. Loving where I am. Loving who I am. Loving the body and the space and the place I'm in right now. And, that's that.

Wait a minute...Did I just make a resolution?

Cheers!