Crazy Girl

One of the things I love most about where I live is that I can be on the coast in an hour or so. The ocean is the closest thing my brain has to a reset button.

The last time I was fortunate to be seaside, my children and I were huddled in a make-shift tent of blankets and towels. The wind was whipping so fiercely the next day I was wishing I could market it, but there's nothing like nature's free dermabrasion.

Anyway, as we were trying to keep sand from gouging our eyeballs while still making castles, a man with a huge backpack and a tiny dog settled down not far from us. He pulled a large orange tarp-like thing out from his backpack and flapped it open. We couldn't figure out what it was...a tent? A raft? A kite?

With what looked like a bike tire pump, he proceeded to pump this thing up. It ended up looking like a giant pair of bat wings; we still didn't know what it was. He threw some sand on it to weigh it down, and he left with his dog at his heals.

A few more people came along and soon the beach was dotted with these THINGS.

The things turned out, in fact, to be kites. The people, in fact, were surfers. Surfers who used the wind as well as waves to propel them.

Kitesurfers.

Watching them launch from the beach into the Pacific was breath-taking. One minute they were standing on the shore, all laden with hooks and ropes attached to large swaths of fabric, and the next they were dancing on water.

I watched and I drooled. I swear, my muscles were twitching, just aching to experience that...gliding over the water, jumping into the air and diving back into waves; they were both surfing and flying.

Eventually, a woman strode onto the beach and began the same ritual of pulling out the tarp, pumping of the bike pump. At this point, however, the winds had picked up even more and her tarp was whipping around making it hard for her to keep it attached to the pump. I watched for a few moments, and then headed towards her.

"Can I help?" I asked.

For a moment, she was quiet. She looked at me without expression; there was enough time for me to wonder if she was silent because she hadn't heard, or if my intrusion was unwelcome. I explained myself by gesturing to the wind.

She broke out into a smile and said, "That would be great. Grab this part here."

I grabbed the wrong part.

"No, here."

"Sorry." (Why did I apologize? I need to work on that.)

"No problem. Right here."

She asked me, "Have you seen us kite from here before?"

"No. It looks amazing. It must be incredibly physically demanding."

"It is. I am crazy. I am a crazy girl. This is what I've chosen. I'm a crazy girl...I didn't chose to stay home and crochet or cook or have kids. I chose this."

Okay, honestly, for a split second I felt a bit defensive (yet there was nothing judgmental in her delivery; she was clearly thinking out loud). But for the rest of that second, and for the following minutes, I chatted with amazing woman as we got her gear in order. She shared about kitesurfing, and I talked about my life.

Eventually, she also threw some sand on her kite and went off to put on a wetsuit. She asked me if I'd be able to hold up the kite when it was time for her to launch. I gushed that I would love to; the concept of being a part of this experience, however tangentially, thrilled me.

I filled my kids in on the details they weren't able to hear and waited for her to come back. I kept my eye out for her as we built more castles, as I read to my little one or read my own book as my boy read to her, as we shared some sandy sandwiches.

But then I saw her, Crazy Girl, in the water slipping her feet into her board while another wet-suited person held up her kite. Somehow, I'd missed her reappearance on the beach, and I'd lost my chance. The disappointment crept over me as I watched her take off, gliding across the water.

I looked at my kids arguing about how best to build a moat for their sandcastle, "NO! The moat should be a circle and we make a river to the water!"

"NOOOOOO! We bring the water to the moat!"

"NO!"

"NO!"

Even as I started to intervene to make sure their argument didn't continue to escalate, I was aware that I was so glad I chose to be the Crazy Girl With Kids.

With every choice, there is a loss.

Reset button pushed.

Location, location, location!

The Past:

Last year, at this time, I was lamenting the impending sale of my dream home.

Last year, at this time, I was freaking out...trying to keep the world together for my kids while simultaneously dismantling it. I didn't know where we were going to live. I feared being homeless.

Last year, I was scared and angry that I was facing one of my worst fears. Financial instability. And not thrilled with the pity.

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The Present:

This year, I am loving the new home we moved into last month. Still renting...but as much in love with it as we are the "dream home" we sold.

This year, I learned that location doesn't matter...what matters is, we are a family that loves and laughs together. Location, location, location...irrelevant.

This year, I realized what I knew all along...money isn't what is important.

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I didn't need this financial kick in the ass to remind me of this...as I said, I knew it all along.

But I'm here to tell you that living it brings it all home.

Ten things I learned from my kids...

1. Take a picture; it lasts longer.
2. You don't need music to dance.
3. Getting the mail is very exciting!
4. It's okay to take two baths a day. Even if you don't need either of them.
5. Sometimes throwing a fit does work.
6. I'm not the perfect parent I thought I would be (see number six).
7. Why my mom drank the milk that I accidentally poured into a glass of ice when I was eight and grossed the rest of us out.
8. That Sesame Street is funny on a whole different level.
9. I spend too much time on the computer.
10. The meaning of life.

Like Beck, only younger

Tonight was my son's viola recital.

He's a musician from waaaaaaay back in the day. Like, when he was three, nearly seven years ago (!!!), we bought him a miniature scale drum set. It's an exact replica of a "real" set, just sized down.

My boy's always had an amazing sense of rhythm and timing, even at that tender age. But I tell you what, it's something else to see a kid shy of his fourth birthday literally jamming with his dad (on guitar)...he would rock out, one hand doing one thing, the other another, one foot on kick drum, the other on high-hats. Each appendage doing it's own thing, and very well (come on, I rarely do the mama bragging thing here, so cut me some slack).

A couple of years later at his first Kindergarten parent-teacher meeting, it was suggested to us that we might consider enrolling him in piano lessons...his love for music combined with how much he liked learning about math and patterns made him a great candidate, we were told.

Five and a half years later, he still loves it.

Last fall he started fourth grade and was interested in starting the optional strings program; he could chose violin, viola, or cello. Viola it was!

Honestly, he's not as taken with this instrument as he is most others. He will pick up my husband's guitars and play with them for hours (and my husband is left-handed, my son isn't...he doesn't seem to care), plucking away and discovering how to play tunes that he either knows from another instrument, or has heard my hubby play. The viola, he practices once a week instead of the "suggested" *ahem* nightly. On his report card it said he did, "very well considering her rarely practiced." (Whatever. I'm not going to make music a chore for him).

On the Fourth of July, my husband's band had a gig. I brought the kids to hear him play & sing. As it turned out, they weren't the only band playing that evening; there was a surprise guest band as well; it was a trio of ten year-olds (one of them the son of the party host): two guitar players, and a drummer. They blew the crowd away...they even had a couple of original tunes.

They are looking for a bassist.

Guess what instrument my son has been begging for recently? Yup, a bass guitar. Drag is, I had one for years but wasn't really interested in learning it...I wanted to skip right to the part where I was the bassist for a chick band (because, seriously, who is cooler in a band than the bassist? No-one!). I ended up selling it when we moved here because I was sick of feeling guilty that I wasn't using it. My husband wasn't really using it either, so off it went.

Thus, I guess a bass guitar purchase is in our future.

Black Coffee in Bed

I had a bit of a hard time falling asleep last night; that often happens to me when I know I have to get up early.  You know that feeling...when you snuggle into bed, look at the clock and think, oh crap.  If I fall asleep right now I'll only get seven hours of sleep.

And it goes downhill from there.  I lie awake and as the minutes tick by I continue to calculate how much sleep I'll get if I fell asleep right now.  Six hours forty-five minutes, six and a half hours, six hours fifteen minutes...

I need a lot of sleep.  I always have.  My husband can pop out of bed and zip to the kitchen, putz around, make coffee, all while whistling happily that another day has started.

Me?  When the light of morning hits my eyes and I realized that I'm beginning to wake up, I groan, fight it, burrow down deeper and try to slip back into my last dream.  Sometimes it works, and I can pick up right where I left off, as if I had cracked open the book I was reading and started the next chapter.

Usually not, though.  Generally when I start to wake up, I have no choice.  My cats seem to sense that I'm waking and the start walking all over me, purring and bamming their heads against mine for attention.  

My M.O. for over a decade now has been to loll in bed (barring those months with newborns)(well, even then sometimes)(okay, usually then, too) while I wait for my hubby to bring me a steaming mug of black coffee.  Once the aroma hits me, I start to get the wherewithall to get my morning started.

In the past couple of weeks, however, my son has been the one to "surprise" me with my cup of coffee.  Each time, I marvel...how did my little boy get to be big enough to carry hot liquids up a set of stairs?

Thing is, he isn't little.  He's ten.  As of today.  The double digits.

Honestly, that's part of the reason I had a hard time falling asleep last night.  Not only was I counting down the hours I had left to sleep, I was also calculating the number of hours it was until the hour of my son's birth the following morning.

Twelve hours, eleven and a half hours, eleven hours...

Stranger Danger?

When my son, now closing in on ten, was three years old, I had many intense discussions with him about strangers.

Stay away from strangers.

Don't trust strangers.

If a stranger approaches you, run away YELLING even if they know your name!

We even did some role playing; my husband or I pretended that we were the stranger and we used all the best lines on him:

"Hey, kid, wants some candy?"

"Hi, little boy, your Mommy is sick and she wanted me to drive you home."

"Hi there, your Daddy wanted me to pick you up, because he and your Mommy had to take your cat to the doctor."

"Remember me? I work with your Daddy! He wanted me to pick you up and bring you to his office so that you can hang out with him! How fun is THAT?!?!?"

"Hey! I can't find my puppy! He's probably scared; can you help me find my lost puppy?"

After a bit of work, and a few tears, he got it. He learned to be wary of strangers. I was ever so proud of my parenting.

But months after we started our indoctrination, I had a very interesting discussion with a trusted friend of mine. It was one of those moments, one where in one concise statement on her part, I realized that a lot of the "truths" I'd held dear were actually never thoroughly examined.

My friend said, "I don't believe in teaching stranger danger; it's more probable that my kids will need the help of a stranger than it is they will be approached by someone malevolent. It's a more likely a scenario that one of my kids will get lost in a grocery store and need to find an adult to help them."

Whoa.

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When I was in preschool, I remember being very comforted by the fact that my mom or dad always picked me up early. For whatever reason, I dreaded the idea of being the last kid waiting for their parents.

And then, one day, it happened. Not only was I the last child waiting, but pick-up time came and went. The sun started setting, and I sat at the big window facing the street waiting for my ride. Eventually the teachers left me in the care of the cleaning lady who'd recently arrived.

(I know this sounds unbelievable by today's standards, but this was the early seventies...times were different.)

It was dark outside, and I continued staring out the window, willing my ride to arrive. I was over the burning shame of being the last one picked up, and starting to be afraid that I was forever forgotten. The cleaning woman was done cleaning the facility and ready to go home.

She looked at me. I looked at her. We were both confused as to how to proceed.

I don't remember much of the ride in her car to her home, other than thinking that my mom would never find me now. When we walked from her front walk into her home and directly into her kitchen, she asked me if I wanted a cookie.

"What kind?" I asked. Even then I was.

"Lorna Dunes," she answered.

Yippee! Lorna Dunes were and are my favorite cookie (I know...BORING).

Once I had my Lorna stash, she asked me if I wanted to watch television.

Uuuuuummm, yeah.

Guess what was on?

MARY TYLER MOORE! Yes, my favorite show. I don't know what it says about me that I was a preschooler whose favorite cookie was (is) Lorna Dunes, and that my fave show was Mary Tyler Moore (okay, that's not true...she was (is) second to Mister Rogers).

Nevertheless, I was a happy little lost girl. I had my favorite cookie and my (second) favorite show. Not long after the show started, my mom arrived. My reaction?

Oh, no, now I can't watch MARY TYLER MOORE!

Turns out that the person who was supposed to pick me up...well, forgot. When this was discovered, a bunch of freaked out adults converged on my preschool. They found a note taped to the front door by the cleaning woman detailing what had happened, and where they could find me.

Find me, they did. They found me all happy with my Lorna Dunes and Mary Tyler Moore.

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So, anyway, after the discussion with my friend, and upon some reflection, I started to wonder how much of a disservice I had done to my son over the past months, what with teaching him that the world is full of bad people that he should avoid.

After that, my stranger danger talks with him (and in more recently, with my daughter) have been far more precise. I haven't taught them that every stranger is dangerous.

I've taught them that, if they are ever in a situation where they need help, there are the strangers they should seek out first.

In my opinion, they should first look for someone in a uniform. For example: policeman, grocery bagger, postal worker, crossing guard, whatever. In all likelihood that person is working, has many eyes on them, and will readily be able to guide a child to a safe place that is set up to help lost children.

My second stringers, so to speak, are moms with kids...especially, moms with strollers and babies. Nothing is a sure bet, but I'd rather my lost child reach out to another mom (in the absence of a person in uniform) with her own passel of kids than the lone person sitting on the park bench reading a novel. For one thing, that mom is probably the safer bet. Also, they are probably more familiar with the procedures for taking care of a lost child, and will know how to comfort them as well.

But I comfort myself by knowing it is far more likely that they will experience the kindness of strangers than the worst that humankind has to offer.

Some things a certain group of moms at my son's school like to do during pick-up

Make off-hand comments about being an 'advocate' for their child.

There seems to be an unwritten rule that the family who has the most meetings with the principal to complain about the teaching staff WINS.

Too much homework? Meeting with principal.

Not enough homework? Meeting with principal.

Don't like who your kid sits next to in science? Meeting with principal.

Feel their child doesn't get called on enough in class? Meeting with principal.

Their child got a C on a test? Clearly they weren't properly instructed on the material in class. Meeting with principal.


Bitch about the parents who run the school's fundraisers.

Mom One, "Can you believe how many fliers come home with our kids about *insert name of school's fundraiser here* asking for help? Enough already!"

Mom Two, "Yeah, no kidding. It's not like *insert name of fundraiser volunteer here* didn't have a huge article in the newsletter last month!"

Mom One,"Pffffft."

Mom Two,"Oh, look, there she is now."

Mom One, "Speak of the devil"

Mom Two, "Crap, she's heading over."

Volunteer Mom, "Hi! How are you two doing?"

Mom One, "Great! How's the *insert name of school's fundraiser here* going?

Volunteer Mom, "It's coming along. Will you be there? I think it will be fun!"

Mom One, "We're going to try." (read: No.)

Mom Two, "I think we're out of town that weekend." (read: Hell, no.)

Volunteer Mom, "Well, that's a drag. We're hoping to make enough money to *insert name of underfunded program*. I do hope to see you there. Gotta go!"

(pause until Volunteer Mom is out of earshot)

Mom One, "She never lets up."

Mom Two, "I know. She's so pushy. No way am I helping her with this fundraiser."

Mom One, "I'm boycotting the event, too. I'm sick of them asking so much of us at this school."

Mom Two, "No kidding!"

Mom One, "Especially when they keep making cuts. Did you hear that the entire district might eliminate the music program because the state is cutting funds? I'm so over this school."



Wear babydoll tee-shirts with sparkly designs on their boobs.

Just an observation. I have a couple myself. I don't wear them anymore, but I have them. Remind me to donate them, won't you?***


Greet their kids while talking on their cell phone.

I want to bitch slap them and yell, "Get off the phone, people! Give your kid a hug and focus on them! Ask them about how their day went and interact with them for a minute or two."

But I'm not 'advocating' for my child because I know he can handle the little things...so my words would fall on deaf ears.

M'kay.

***edited to ad: I actually do love some of my sparkly tees...it's just that I find I am choosing NOT to wear them at pick-up so as not to be associated with the Judgmental Moms. Maybe I need to start a campaign to Take Back the Sparkles.

On resolutions, universe domination, and FancyPants

Something that's crept into more than one conversation with friends recently is the sad fact that being a grown-up is somethings so boring. It goes without saying (and yet, I'm saying it) that I'm eternally grateful for all I have; I feel crazily blessed with this wonderful family I have, this life I'm fortunate enough to be enjoying.

But while every day is a gift, at the same time the days kind of blend into a blur of laundry and homework and dishes and errands and more laundry and playdates and doing the bills. That certainty is comforting in many ways; but I also remember the days when throwing on a dress and some lipstick to go grab a coffee with a friend carried and undercurrent of excitement because you had no idea what that little excursion might bring you.

This comment I wrote at Jennifer's NYE blog, Playgroups are no place for children (am I the only one who thinks that some of my best ideas are left in comments for others?):

It’s funny…for me NYE used to be my absolute favorite holiday, followed by Fourth of July…something magical always seemed to happen.

Now, we watch the ball fall in Times Square (which for us on the West Coast is at 9pm) then go to bed, and I haven’t been to a fireworks display in years.

I can’t help but think that perhaps I need to shake it up a bit and let that magic back into my life…it sure isn’t going to come find us holed up in our house.

Jill from Caffeine Court made a suggestion to me that rang true...she said

I guess you have to always have something to look forward to, like a night out, or a little shopping trip and try to see the wonders in everyday things.

She's totally right; I need to carve out more time for myself this year...I'm rarely alone. I don't spend enough time with my friends without kiddies in tow. It's been so long that honestly, I don't even crave it anymore...going out sounds like work! My thought process goes something like, I'll have to get dressed, put on makeup, find my car keys, drive someplace, park the car, talk to adults, drive BACK home later...what a pain in the ass. I think I'll stay home and read.

I've been thinking about making this my new year's resolution...to find time for myself and bring some sparkly magic feeling back to everyday. But, I'm not a New Year's Resolution person, at least not usually. I used to be, but if I messed up and broke my promise to myself, I felt like, "Well, that one's out!" Thus feeling like I didn't need to work on that anymore.

So a few years back I made the New Year's Resolution that I wouldn't make New Year's Resolutions, that every day was a new opportunity to improve myself. It works pretty well for me, too. Except that recently I've realized that the idea that after all, tomorrow is another day has pretty much turned into an excuse to put off starting good habits for the next day. Which is always tomorrow, of course. Kinda convenient, eh?

So I've cleverly constructed a New Year's Resolution Catch-22 for myself; I'm thinking maybe I'll just need to cycle between NYR years and non-NYR years. Just in case I chose to make resolutions this year, I'm working on a list (still a WIP):

1.) Exercise regularly
2.) Make time for myself
3.) Eat better
4.) Drink more water and less wine
5.) Be a better human being in every conceivable manner
6.) Become the master of time, space, and dimension
7.) Learn to knit

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By the way, you may also now address me as FancyPants. The Fabulous Mrs. Fussypants has bestowed upon me the nickname because of my fancy new blog look. I'm excited; the only other nickname I've ever had was Beazo.d. That's a story for another day (hint: the story involves beer).

Seriously, he might have been Santa

Today was Christmas tree day in our household. We hopped into my minivan (Yes, minivan. My ego is not tied up with my vehicle. Plus there is TONS of room for crap to accumulate and I need that because decluttering my car is a pain as I keep my car in a constant state of pigsty) to Silveyville Tree Farm...it's been a tradition of ours for years. It's a cut your own tree farm; let me tell you that it is highly entertaining to see people wandering around with scythes slung over their shoulders; there was one family whose teenage son was using theirs like a cane. The hood on his red sweatshirt was covering most of his face; my husband pointed out to me, "He's like the Grim Reaper, but cheery because he's wearing red. He's the Cheer Reaper." I tried to one-up him, but all I came up with was Great Reaper, which wasn't any better at all.

I always have visions of these family excursions as being all postcardy and fuzzy around the edges...we all hold hands and smile at each other and enjoy the crisp air scented with a variety of pine trees. I know that's ridiculous, but I want it; I want my kids to have those memories.

Of course, this is reality not a perfume commercial, so while we did hold hands and smile at each other and the air was wonderfully crisp and scented with a variety of pine trees, other things were happening as well. I twisted my ankle muddling through the Scotch Pines, our daughter whined because she wanted to just PICK A TREE ALREADY so she could climb on the hay bales. Our son reminded us of things we already knew, and I'm sure my husband was cold because he let me wear his coat even though he only had on a long sleeved tee while I had on a sweatshirt over my tee.

But, still, we picked the best tree ever aka Perfect Tree Except For That One Bare Spot (and found another perfect baby tree that will be ready for us in a few years, more about that later), and my manly man husband CHOPPED IT DOWN! He could totally take care of us in the woods.

While we waited for the nice people at the tree farm shake it to get rid it of loose needles, we hopped on an ATV train, climbed hay bales, rode on an antique sleigh, checked out the life size nativity scene, played on the hay bale reindeer, took pictures, huddled near the crackling fire, and met Santa. They say he wasn't the real Santa, but the brother of a couple of people who work there. They say he is actually a trucker and that they had to bleach his hair to whiten it. They say that it took them a few years to convince him to 'play' Santa there. I say he was such a dead ringer for the real deal that I think they doth protest too much.

At the end of the day, I'm sure my minivan looked pretty ding dang cool with our tree strapped to the luggage rack, and if I'm not mistaken a few fellow highway travelers looked longingly at our Perfect Tree Except For That One Bare Spot. Our daughter was giddy with the tree trimming festivities, and we did the whole holding her up to put the star on the top of the tree thang. Yes, her eyes sparkled with the wonder and joy.

Later, at dinner, we chatted about how much we enjoyed the activities at the farm. I asked my daughter what her favorite part of being there was. She looked off into the distance for a moment, and then answered, "Picking our tree."

Maybe their memories will be postcardy and fuzzy around the edges after all.


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Can I tell you how excited I am about this? I wasn't nominated last year...I did a bit of nominating of others, but wasn't honored myself. I honestly have no idea what this means in the big scheme of things, but I am flattered and humbled nonetheless. And I'm also laughing that the only one with any votes is hottest mommy blogger. HA!

Tell me it's okay to be Pollyannaish

I had my first mammogram at age thirty-five...partly for baseline, partly because I'd thought I'd felt a lump. It was chostrochondritis (inflammation of the cartilage in the chest)

I had my second at age forty...partly because I'd turned forty, partly because I'd found another lump. I got called back after the mammogram, went in for an ultrasound. They did a fine needle aspiration right then and after some agonizing days the pathology report said, "Benign cyst."

My third mammogram was the following year. The mammogram found a suspicious area (same general area as the cyst), and so again I went back for an ultrasound. The ultrasound showed a shadow; that meant it was a solid mass which is far scarier than a liquid cyst. A fine needle aspiration wasn't sufficient; I had to come back later for a biopsy. The doctor and tech both looked concerned, and tried to be reassuring but kept repeating things like, "No need to worry until we know what we are dealing with." To a hypochondriac like me (or more accurately a permanent medical student syndrome sufferer), that wasn't the least bit reassuring. It over a full month from the mammogram to the results of the biopsy, which was galactocoele (aka milk cyst). Benign.

Part of the reason my post last night was so lame was because I was dreading this morning. Yup, mammogram number four was this morning. I tried to be positive this time, not freaked out, not worrying, not saying to myself, "What if this time...?" I tried to convince myself that this time they'd find nothing, and I could leave the radiology suite smiling naturally instead of forcibly. And I was afraid to do that, afraid that hoping for the best was jinxing me for the worst. Because I learned that's how it works in medical school.

This time they found several little calcifications. "Punctuated calcifications" which is the good kind, the variety "rarely associated with malignancy." In fact, the radiologist recommended that I just return in six months for a follow up. But I dug in my heals...I know me all too well. I'd spend many a sleepless night fretting that perhaps I was the exception. When I was all PMS-y I'd look at my kids faces and tear up, torturing myself by imagining them growing up without me. Every time I'd see a pink ribbon I'd break out into a mini cold sweat.

So I sat with him in his dark office, holding the microscope and looking at X-rays of my boobs, specifically at those punctuated calcifications and he said, "Ninety-nine percent of the time these are signs of benign changes."

I said, "I don't want to spend the next six months fearing I'm that one percent. Nope, I want a biopsy."

So now I wait for the call to schedule the biopsy.

The road to hell, best intentions, blah blah blah

For some reason, I thought tonight would be a good night for my son to have a sleep-over.

And as tomorrow is my daughter's birthday, of course I decided to plan a birthday party. Here. At the new home we've been in for less than a week.

My hope was to keep things as normal as possible, and to quickly create lasting, fun memories in the new house. What I managed to do was create an atmosphere where things -and traditions- were broken.

Must go repair what was broken, and prepare for the party tomorrow.

A partial list of things for which I have forgiven myself this week:

1.) Skipping last night's parent education class at my daughter's preschool.
2.) Spending a bit of time online while I'm at this old house instead of packing and filling the car with loads of crap stuff we've still got here.
3.) Totally blowing off NaNoWriMo
4.) Not commenting on other blogs as I can hardly find the time to write anything for my own this week (I hope the internets forgive me as well) and I'm sure not flaking on NaBloPoMo.
5.) Eating fast food and pizza the majority of meals because because moving sucks and I can't think about cooking.
6.) Letting my kids watch more TV than is probably good for them.
7.) Knowing my daughter has a poopy pull-up right now and yet I'm finishing this list before I change it.
8.) Yelling at my kids for minor infractions BECAUSE MOVING SUCKS.
9.) Not going over my son's report card with him because we can't seem to find five minutes to sit down together. I've talked to him about how it rocked, but he has yet to see it.
10.) I don't even know where that report card is.

Where am I? Who am I?

The first morning I woke up in this home we're selling I was laying on a makeshift bed of family room sofa, chair, and ottoman. My son, who was then five, and my husband and I had all snuggled there as our beds weren't yet assembled. When I opened my eyes, I looked out the window and marveled in the seventy-five year old row of oak trees that lined the back of our lot. I'd fallen in love with them; they were the reason we built this home here.

I snuck out from under the covers and tip-toed to a bathroom, where I opened and EPT and peed on the stick.

That was the morning I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. It's always been a lovely association...learning of my pregnancy on the first morning in a new home.

A couple of my neighbors here on this cul-de-sac we're leaving are pregnant. As we've gone through this process of having a home on the market, finding a place to move, and now moving, I've seen their bellies swell. It's been a constant reminder of being pregnant in this home. In a way, I feel like with this move I am transitioning into the next phase of my life...away from my childbearing years and into...what's after that? Parenthood? But I was already a parent. Middle age? That just sounds old.

Anyway, now the home we built nearly five years ago is our "old" house, and the rental we're moving into is the "new" house. This house, the "old" one is still full of miscellaneous things that need to be moved, but we haven't slept here since Saturday. This one has internet and cable, the other one doesn't. We're in between homes. It's all very strange and slightly surreal.

Surprise package...or, the real Sicko

Thanks to gross Karate floor mats, last December my son had a lovely wart on the bottom of his foot. After the easy remedies didn't work, we pulled out the big guns and went to a podiatrist for an application of the miraculous Blister Beetle juice. The Blister Beetle secrets juice that causes blisters when it comes in contact with skin (how fortunate it's called that, huh?).

The podiatrist also happens to be a friend of ours; this was our first visit to her office and the kids were having a great time chatting with her in her white lab coat just like they did in everyday life. The three of us left the exam room all happy and giggly.

Upon returning to the lobby, we were greeted with a big old man who looked just like Santa Claus. He was an elderly guy with a bushy white beard, long silvery hair, red suspenders over a plaid flannel shirt, and big black boots. Being the holiday season, and as we 'do the Santa thing' here, my kids were enthralled, especially my little girl. She was young enough to think that maybe, just maybe, this was the real Santa. The guy was working in, too. He asked her if she'd been a good girl this year, what she wanted for Christmas, where she thought Rudolf was (one the roof, of course!). He was charming and I was all in the holiday spirit; I was as into it as my kids were. My daughter talked about it for days, telling all she met how SHE MET SANTA AT THE DOCTORS!

If you're a regular reader, you know we're moving. Not far away, but to a different neighborhood in the same town. Being a rather paranoid mama (not to mention one who spends too much time online) one afternoon not too long ago I went to California's Megan's Law website to check out our new hood.

Podiatry Lobby Santa was on there. For LEWD OR LASCIVIOUS ACTS WITH CHILD UNDER 14 YEARS. That guy was intentionally dressed like Santa to lure kids. He looked at my children. He talked to them. And I, all bubbly and sparkly, called him Santa and played along.

*shiver*

My friend's old neighbor is on that website; he was eighteen and having sex with his girlfriend who was seventeen (or was it seventeen and sixteen). He forever has to carry that around with him, explain it to new neighbors, etc. That would suck and I do feel bad for the guy; yet I wouldn't let my kids play with his kids, even though when I was seventeen I had sex with my eighteen year old boyfriend. Hypocritical, yes. Mamabearish, yes. I will do whatever it takes, however paranoid,to keep my kids safe.

This flipping Santa dude came out of the woodwork. He looked so harmless (and isn't that what I've tried to teach my kids...bad guys can look good)! Frankly, it wouldn't bother me ONE LITTLE BIT if that Blister Beetle juice was used on whatever body part of his was necessary to make sure he didn't harm another child.

Take one down, pass it around

When I sent my husband out to get Halloween candy this year, I nagged reminded him to buy more candy than he has in the past couple of years, because we always run out. He did a good job and came back with a respectable mountain of peanut free goodies. That being said, I still didn't think it would be enough as it seems that every year we have more and more trick or treaters knocking on our door, and while the quantity might have been enough for last year, it might not be enough for this year if we kept trending upward.

But, whatever. I have plenty on my plate these days and frankly buying more candy *just in case* didn't make it to the top of my priority list. Okay, honestly, it didn't make it onto the list.

So last night I sent my husband off with the kids and the neighbors, kids loaded with costumes and goody bags and adults loaded with beverages to get them loaded. I had my big bowl full of candy and my backstock bowl at the ready. Between DING-DONGS I packed for the move and watched Ghost Hunters while enjoying a nice Cab.

Oddly, there weren't many DING-DONGS. There were the neighborhood kids that we knew (most of whom were in the same pack as my two), the were the teens who go everywhere and an interesting third group: parents who came up to the door with their kids to ask where we were moving. AND WHY.

I've had more than one friend tell me that "people are wondering" about why we are moving. Shhhhhhh...the big secret IS NOT A SECRET. We couldn't have been more candid about the fact that WE CAN'T AFFORD THIS HOUSE ANYMORE. Tada! Cat was never in the bag. And yet, there is still a bunch of whispering about our "situation." People just love them a good gossip, huh?

My husband and I thought about making stuff up just to fuel their need to consume rumors. He suggested I say, "My husband beats me every night *cough* at Scrabble *cough*." I suggested he say, "She cheated *cough* at Scrabble *cough*." Or maybe a simple, "We've split *cough* the Scrabble board in half from overuse *cough*." What do you think?

Onward, Ho!

(What did I just call me?)

So, we've done it. We've signed a lease and have started moving stuff. Boxes and boxes and boxes and the occasional furniture bit. The big stuff will be moving over the next couple of weekends when we rent a truck. Eventually we'll hire someone to haul the stuff we can't, unless we get lucky and we don't need to. We shall see.

It's funny, people keep coming up to us and expressing sympathy at the 'loss' of this house. Hey! We're exuberant and thrilled and incredulous that we sold a home in this market, to be out from under this mortgage, to be living within our means. Congratulate us, don't pity us.

In other news, today was our first parent-teacher conference of our son's school year. His teacher is amazing, she adores him, he's doing fabulously, he adores her, she's all you could ever want in an elementary school educator and more. Far, far more.

That's the shit that matters. Not the crown molding and stainless steel appliances and tile hand assembled in Italy.

We are so lucky.

A big old blogging hug

My buddy Casey over at Moosh in Indy is asking for support and words of wisdom/encouragement for her friend who recently suffered a miscarriage. Here's the comment I left over at her blog; if you can stop by and help her friend through this by sharing your stories or sending well wishes it would be much appreciated. And a doggone nice thing to do!

-----------------------------

I had two miscarriages in-between my two children.

The first started with some cramping and spotting. I remember the moment I knew for sure that it was serious; I was laying in bed and felt a gush accompanied by horrible cramping. At that exact moment the chimes outside our bedroom window rang, despite it being a totally calm night. I was nearly eleven weeks; we’d seen the heartbeat nearly a month earlier.

The second time I was in the doctor’s office for a routine 7 week vaginal ultrasound. We were so excited…but then the silence in that dark room as my OB tried to locate a heartbeat was overwhelming. My own heart was pounding like crazy, and everything was reduced to the concerned look on my doctor’s face and my thought, “Not again, not again, not again, not again, not again.” Those moments seemed to last forever, until he looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry.”

What got me through those experiences without losing hope was the fact that miscarriages are so common. Painful and devastating and all of those horrible things, but also natural and not something to be ashamed of…the loss of a pregnancy is something women (and men) have been grieving throughout time. It sucked to be part of that group, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

I’m glad you’re doing this for your friend. She needs to feel not-alone. Hugs to her, and to you.

Maybe I'm just officially old and crotchety

Does everyone have that moment where they think, what is up with kids these days? I seem to have them frequently.

One of my son's friends was being dropped off today at 9:45am. The plan was for them to hang out here for a couple of hours, for me to take them and my daughter to a movie, and then drop the boys off at their golf tournament. All was going well (the boys played with Legos and my daughter was with me) all day until after the movie. As we were getting into the car, the boys asked if they could play GameCube when we got home. I quickly nixed that idea, "We just left a movie...enough screen time for now. Go outside," I suggested. "Jump on the tramp, walk the dog, ride bikes or scooters. Get some exercise."

The kid turns to my son and complains, "That's not fair. We didn't play this GameCube at all today. We should be allowed to play now."

I heard his indignant lament repeated to my son all the way home from the theater. Instead of being thankful that I just took him to a movie, this kid complained loudly that it wasn't FAIR that he couldn't do what he wanted when he got back to our house. My son just sat there and didn't do much more to shrug to his friend; we met eyes more than once in the rear-view mirror and he had this look on his face that simultaneously made me proud and sad. He knew his friend was being unreasonable, he knew it wasn't going to work with me, he was a little afraid I might respond to his friend like I would to him (that is, call him on being ungrateful), he was embarrassed that his friend was being so rude, he wished that I wasn't more strict than his friend's family and didn't limit his screen time.

I wanted to yell at his friend, "Dude, I'm right here. Go ahead and complain about me later, but to bitch about me while I am is so disrespectful my head is spinning!"

When we got they all went upstairs to play. Pretty soon I hear my daughter crying...that kid locked her out of the playroom. Where her toys are. Where I had told him she was allowed to be.

I go upstairs, tell them to unlock the door. The kid starts to complain about having her in the room, "She's not bugging you; leave her alone and she'll leave you alone."

He rolls his eyes and turns away.

Five minutes later she's crying again. He wouldn't let her in the room again. My son was in his room, and this kid was pushing the door shut and not letting her back in (but he DIDN'T LOCK IT!). When I let her back she headed over to the Lego table; he watched her and as soon as she picked something up he snatched it out of her hand. "Hey! Let's not grab!" She picks something else up and he tries to wrench it out of her hand AGAIN.

I'm standing right there; I'd just told him not to do that. Now they're engaged in this tug of war over a little bit of plastic. "Let go." I told him. He looks at me and continues to struggle with her. It's not until I say his name THREE TIMES does he let go.

So, there's more, but you get the idea.

Can you imagine talking to the parents of one of your friends when you were nine years old? My son actually has a pretty nice group of friends for the most part, but there seems to be a fundamental lack of respect for us, their elders on the part of a lot of these boys.

Why is that? Why is their behavior trending in this way? Is this everywhere, or just my little academic town full of privileged kids who think that they *deserve* everything they want?

----------------------------------------------------

(Added Wednesday)

So, I was just talking to a friend and told her about this post...she burst into song ('Kids' from Bye Bye Birdie):

Kids!
I don't know what's wrong with these kids today!
Kids!
Who can understand anything they say?
Kids!
They a disobedient, disrespectful oafs!
Noisy, crazy, dirty, lazy, loafers!
While we're on the subject:
Kids!
You can talk and talk till your face is blue!
Kids!
But they still just do what they want to do!
Why can't they be like we were,
Perfect in every way?
What's the matter with kids today?
Kids!
I've tried to raise him the best I could
Kids! Kids!
Laughing, singing, dancing, grinning, morons!
And while we're on the subject!
Kids! They are just impossible to control!
Kids! With their awful clothes and their rock an' roll!
Why can't they dance like we did
What's wrong with Sammy Caine?
What's the matter with kids today!


Yes, it is official. I'm just old and crotchety.

Series of Fortunate Events

Our little town has an abundance of single lane roundabouts. I love zipping around those traffic circles...the dance of cars merging, rotating, and exiting is just plain fun; it's the mom-in-a-minivan version of a doing donuts in a snowy parking lot. I know, that's pathetic. But I take me thrills when and where I can.

Today as I was circling one of those center islands, I saw a car getting ready to merge. What I DIDN'T see was the driver looking to his left to see if he needed to yield to cars already on the roundabout (that is, ME). Nope, the dude just cruised right into in intersection, arm dangling out the window, face staring straight ahead. I had to slam on the breaks and was forced to stop in the middle of the circle. As I sat there, he slowly turned his head and gave me a look like, "What? Why are you looking at me with your mouth hanging open? And why are you stopped in the middle of the road?"

If I hadn't stopped, if I weren't a paranoid driver that is always anticipating others to be boneheads, that guy would have plowed RIGHT INTO the passenger side of my minivan. Right exactly where my daughter was strapped into her cow-printed car seat, singing to her stuffed animals. I looked back at her and an image flashed in front of my face: that car seat smashed towards the center of the car. Right exactly where my son was sitting engrossed reading The Grim Grotto.

For a split second, my world was over.

But I turned back around and exited the roundabout, my world intact. The worries (financial, financial, and financial) of the moments before Mr. Stupid Driver blithely cut me off were forgotten.

So thank you, Mr. Stupid Driver, for reminding me to put it all in perspective.

Now I need to get back into my exercise routine

When I was in third grade, a girl in my class came up to me at recess and asked me what was wrong; why didn't I want to play on the playground?

"I'm tired," I said.

"Mentally or physically?" she asked.

Mentally or physically? That brought me up short. I hadn't ever thought about the distinction. "Mentally," I realized out loud.

That's how I was yesterday. Utterly drained. Emotionally spent. Just fucking EGGS-hoss-ted. And I haven't had much in the way of reserves left for my son, my daughter, my husband, or oh, yeah...myself.

As I stated earlier, FBNOML has been going through some serious stuff and is facing some big decisions. Since that post her situations has become more convoluted, more wrenching, more weighty...which actually clarifies her situation to me, but complicates it for her. Her future will be bright someday no matter what, but I just want for her to need those shades sooner rather than later. I can advise her, and I do when she wants me to..but ultimately as much as I'd like to I can't make the decisions for her. It's like letting go of that bike seat for the first time your child doesn't have training wheels; you know they can balance, but they just *might* fall. Especially when they realize you aren't holding on anymore.

Not that I resent a second of it. It's the essence of parenting, this worry, this visceral love that elevates your kids and their needs above all else.

But, it is hard sometimes.

There is more than just this situation that has left me yesterday a quivering protoplasmic mass of psychic fatigue. One of my closest friends has had some issues of her own; I've stepped in the past couple of weeks as a part-time nanny for her two children (10 months and 3 years). I don't mind this a bit, either...for isn't that the essence of friendship, to swim through the bad times together as well as the good?

Anyway, all of this has left me with too little time for myself and my youngest children, and also without the resources to provide them with A. FUN. SUMMER! which had been my hope. Instead, I have been letting them watch too much TV and play too much GameCube while I too often turn to my computer for some Brain Candy Downtime (like my new header?) while I try to recharge.

This morning I woke up while my husband was still home; I hopped in the shower (I KNOW!) and decided my son and daughter and I were going to have a mini-excursion. Not a big deal, just some simple summer fun. We donned our sunblock/helmets/harnesses (oh yeah, we brought the cutest puppy EVER as well)/gear as appropriate and headed a mile or so to a local, independently owned coffee shop. They know us there, and always manage to find a croissant in the back for my daughter even if they are sold out. We sat outside, chatted and laughed and fed the cutest puppy EVER our scraps.

Life IS good. Everyone will be fine. This I know.