My very last nerve

I'm not blogging about it!

2012-01-25T09:25:00.004-05:00

There are two things I hate to blog about: being sick and how I'm not blogging. The first because by mid February, I am usually sick to death of hearing people bitch about being sick (myself included - I can't even stand myself when I'm sick), and I don't want to expose you lovely people to it. The second because blogging about not having anything to blog about is the adult equivalent of "Mom, I'm boooooooorrrrrrrrred!" and thus totally annoying.

So anyway.

Mostly, I have backed off from blogging because the main things on my mind lately have been things I can't really write about. Like other people's business. For example, my best friend discovered that she was married to a pedophile (WAY worse than the arrogant, self-inflated, not-as-smart-as-he-thinks, annoying, sociopathic, cheating asshole that I always knew he was). And now she is in a same sex relationship, which I fully support, but come on - when you know someone all your life and then one day there is suddenly this big new thing, it's weird. Not bad weird - just takes some getting used to weird.

And then we had the stuff I couldn't blog about because I was concerned for my safety. Yeah - you read that right - safety. No - I didn't have any crazy blog commenters or anything (I don't have enough readers for that. I mean you guys are crazy, but not that kind of crazy) - I actually had a friend & her husband that our family was very close to turn into raving lunatics and blame all their woes on my husband, then proceed to harrass and even threaten us. So I was pretty consumed with that for a while. Plus - despite the fact that I never shared my blog with her, I'm not completely anonymous and there's always the chance she could find it. So I didn't want to incite anything by talking about it, nor did I want to share much of what was going on in my life with crazy, prying eyes.

So, in a nutshell - I haven't been blogging much, excuses, blah blah BLAH, THIS DOESN'T COUNT AS BLOGGING ABOUT IT. I'll be back when I have something nice to say.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

OK - you know me - I'll be back when I have something ~~nice~~ else to say.

Dear Slate Magazine: Really?

2012-01-11T12:43:00.003-05:00

Dear Slate Magazine,

Despite the fact that you go on to answer the question with "They're not!" headlines like this are the reason are sons - and especially our daughters - value beauty over brains. STOP IT NOW!

Plunged!

2012-01-05T11:20:00.011-05:00

On New Years Day, for the third year in a row, I got up at an ungodly hour and drove into the city to meet up with my fellow crazy people and jump into the freezing cold Monongahela River. And as always, I am glad I did. It maye seem crazy to some (hell - it seems crazy to me - if you want to know the reason why I do it, that story is here), but it's an awesome way to start off the new year - by doing something wild and ballsy and adventurous and invigorating and yes - crazy. I intend to keep on doing it every year. In fact, 8 year old Emily told me she needs to do it with me next year. We'll see how she feels at disgustingly early o'clock on January 1st, 2013.

When we got to the river, the sun was coming out and it seemed like a great day for a swim:

We gathered around and slowly de-layered ourselves in preparation (well some of us did. Others of us who are totally badass just took it all off way ahead of time and told the cold to SUCK IT):

Some of us prayed:

OK, that was actually a diving pose, but it looks like praying and honestly, the old fogeys among us were praying silently for the water rescue boats to show up because at dive time, this is what we saw (NO BOATS! WTF?):

Then the dark clouds started to form in the background:

It started raining and we decided that there was no reason to wait around in the rain, getting cold and wet. If we were going to get cold and wet, it was going to be on OUR TERMS, DAMMIT! So we jumped:

We depended on others to rescue us from the freezing water, because there is no getting out without help (photo by @burghbaby):

And when it was over, we were happy, albeit cold (photo by @burghbaby):

Thanks to @burghbaby for her photos, and to Crappy Dad (who is decidedly un-crappy) for taking photos with my camera.

This Should NEVER Happen

2011-12-29T19:22:00.010-05:00

Tuesday morning, one of the boy's scout leaders lost his 19 year old son in a car accident. Hearing the news felt like a punch in the gut. Any parent, upon hearing such a thing, can't help but to feel it. Even just imagining what they are feeling is worse than anything any parent wants to feel.

And while it's always a surprise, when it's a kid who is responsible and good and hardworking, and who wasn't drinking, it's even moreso. That's how it was when our family went through the same thing.

I met mr b's sister before I met him. She told me all about her family and showed my photos of her kids. In the week that I got to know her before I met him, she already felt like family. So when I met her kids for the first time, I immediately loved them. her daughter (Scabs - I talk about her all the time here) was the same age as me and her son, Ricky, was a few years younger. I was taken by this kid right away. He was different from any 13 year old boy I had ever met. he was polite and respectful and he actually liked spending time with his mother and family.

He was smart and funny and a hard worker. He did well in everything he did. He was an amazing hockey player - even at a young age, he was being watched by scouts. He and a friend started a band and got themselves gigs immediately. When he was 15, he knew he wanted to have a truck when he was able to drive, so he got a job. He worked and saved every penny and by the time he turned 16, he had enough to buy a beautiful truck. Unfortunately, it was a manual transmission, which he hadn't learned to drive yet. I still laugh at the memory of him calling me and asking if I could go with him and his mom to drive the truck home (since his mom & sister didn't know how, either).

We brought the truck home that night and he asked if I would take him to the zoo parking lot & teach him to drive it (they lived just up the road). After eating dinner, I was tired, it was dark, and I really didn't feel like going, but he flashed me his beautiful eyes & smile and I couldn't resist. We headed out and in a very short time, he was able to drive. I am so glad I took him that night.

He loved that truck and he was increwdibly responsible with it. He took great care of it and never asked his mom for gas money - he earned it himself. He drove safely and he ALWAYS wore his seatbelt. Until the day he didn't. he wasn't driving that day, his friend was. We'll never know why he didn't buckle up. His friend was driving fast - not crazy fast, but too fast for the curvy neighborhood road they were on - I don't think it was intentional, but a common new-driver's mistake. And when they lost control, his friend got banged around a little. but Ricky was thrown from the car. He landed in someone's front yard and that's where the beautiful light behind those beautiful eyes went out. That's when the light behind his mother's eyes went out.

I still remember the call. I was at work & my roommate called to say that my sisters-in-law had been calling all morning and that it sounded urgent. I immediately thought about mr b's aging mother - she hadn't been well. But I called sister after sister and no one was home. I finally reached one SIL's husband and I can still remember what he said word-for-word. I can still - 19 1/2 years later - "Oh man - I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there was a car accident and appretnly little Ricky was killed." I still remember the inhuman sound that came out of me. I remember falling to the ground. I don't remember going home - I know someone drove me, but I don't remember who. And worst of all, I remember having to tell mr b. He didn't want to believe it. No one did, but it was true.

The next week was a blur. It was the worst week of all of our lives. Because we never thought it could happen to us. Especially not to him. He was smart and kind and good and most of all - responsible. Just like the 19 year old who it happened to on Tuesday. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt either.

There's nothing anyone can do or say to make sense of this. All I can do is keep trying to instill the importance of wearing a seatbelt to my kids. They get sick of it. I hear "I know, Mom!" again and again. But they don't know. They don't know what it feels like for a parent to have their heart ripped from their body - to lose their will to live. But I have seen it firsthand - people I know and care about have lived it. So I keep telling my kids over and over until I'm blue in the face. I'll tell your kids, too. And another kids in earshot. Don't assume because your kid is responsible when you are around that they are always that way. Drive them crazy if you have to. Because crazy and alive is OK.

Small Town (and Big City) Magic

2011-12-07T14:39:00.005-05:00

Growing up, we never ventured into the city (except for an occasional trip to the zoo or museum, but never downtown). We never had to – we had everything we needed in my small town. We had a large discount store (Fisher’s Big Wheel) and three department stores - one large chain (Montgomery Wards), and two smaller, independent department stores (which were part of smaller chains), which were awesome – multiple floors of stuff to buy, old fashioned elevators, and free gift wrapping. We had tons of shoe stores – one even had a wooden, pedal-driven merry-go-round you could ride while your parents shopped. We had boutiques that catered to women, and men, and kids. We had card shops, gift shops, and a record store where you could listen to 45s before buying them*.

We had a big 5 &10 (GC Murphy’s, but everyone called it the 5 & 10) that was two floors – we’d head downstairs to buy angora to wrap our boyfriends class ring and then head upstairs to eat lunch in the restaurant (best hot dogs ever). We had grocery stores and small markets in just about every corner. We had a book store, we had photo studios, and coffee shops, and jewelry stores.

We had two (TWO!) movie theaters, and another in a nearby town (in fact, our town was home to one of the first movie theatres in the country). We had our very own radio station (WESA). We had more restaurants than you can shake a stick at – everything from little places like Isaly’s, to fast food (as it was then) like Winky’s & Pickle Barrel, to nice, fancy places, to the “buffeteria” at Montgomery Wards (where my grandma worked). We had several pharmacies – back in the day when pharmacists were chemists & actually made stuff. One of them had a real, honest to goodness soda fountain where you could get vanilla cokes and chocolate malts. The parades & light-up night brought people from all over – they were that good.

But sadly, those things are all long gone – what the onset of shopping malls didn’t kill, the downfall of the steel industry finished off (or vice versa). So when I moved to the city, I was enthralled by downtown. I spent many, MANY days wandering around, shopping, eating, seeing the sights. Pittsburgh was magical to me. When I started working full time, I used to head to Kaufmann’s department store on my lunch hours, sometimes to shop, but mostly just to wander around or sit in the café & read.

So after we moved back to my small town to raise our family, I made a point of taking my kids to the city as much as possible, so they could experience that magic. And Kaufmann’s was always one of our destinations – especially at Christmas. Seeing the beautiful window displays & wandering around the Christmas floor became some of our favorite activities. This year was no exception.

But a few years ago, Kaufmann’s was taken over by Macy’s, and slowly, over time, our beautiful, local gem of a department store has turned into a huge, cookie cutter conglomerate store. Instead of 11 floors to shop in, there are 6. The candy counter is gone. The spa, and café, and some of the restaurants are gone. The Christmas floor is now the Christmas Teeny Tiny Patch of Carpet That Has Less Stuff Than The Mall Macy’s. Santa’s Workshop (where kids can Christmas shop) is still there, but it’s smaller and far less personal. And the windows! Oh man. What used to be a beautiful display, with a theme across all the glittering, sparkling, animated, breathtaking windows is now the most half-assed, cheap-looking, sad little excuse for a window display I have ever seen. I’ve seen nicer in your windows. It was a huge disappointment.

I’m happy to report, however, that while Macy’s was disappointing, downtown Pittsburgh in general was still magical. We missed out on the carriage ride (despite getting there early, they were already long sold out), but we did get to ride the trolley. Emily took advantage of the free balloon animals & face-painting**, we had a delicious lunch at Las Velas, we saw lots of decorations and lights. And best of all, my girl and I went ice skating with Santa and sang Christmas carols at the top of our lungs. All in all, it was a good day and I can’t wait to do it again.

*If you read that sentence and thought a what store? Listen to what?, then get off my lawn! Whippersnappers.

**Emily waited patiently in line, and was getting very excited to have her turn after the two sisters in front of her. And when the second sister was done, she headed to the chair, only to be told that she would have to wait a little longer, because those sisters’ mother wanted to get her face painted. Don’t get me wrong – everyone has a right to do what they want. And there is nothing wrong with an adult doing something fun and childlike now and then. But when it is being offered free to kids and there are 15-20 of those kids waiting in line, perhaps mom could find some other childlike thing to do instead of adding wait time to the excited, impatient children. Just a thought.

Facepaint (I think she sees it as a legal form of makeup):

Skating:

Our beautiful city:

Unrelated to anything above - Christmas Dog:

Crisis of Faith, Christmas Style

2011-12-01T15:55:00.002-05:00

I’ve been having a sort of crisis of faith for a while now. Long story short, I grew up going to church (with my aunt- my parents never went, which makes it super funny when my mom starts nagging me about taking the kids to church, claiming, “You always went to church!” and accusing me of being disrespectful to her non-churchgoing ass. Good times.) Anyway, the point is, I miss the community of church, I miss the fellowship, I miss the spirituality, and I want to find a church where I feel at home. Growing up, I had that – I made friends and performed in pageants and sang in the choir and gave the children’s sermon.

Then, when I was on my own in the city, I found a new church that was even better – welcoming and friendly and community & service oriented. But when I moved back to small town USA, I ended up back in the church I grew up in. And over the years the congregation started to wane, growing older, until no kids’ services were available anymore. No nursery or Sunday school or junior church. And suddenly, going to church with kids wasn’t easy anymore. Eventually I stopped.

And as much as I want to find a place like that again, I find it hard to get past the fact that churches are so often the least Christian places around. Haven’t seen that side of it? Try walking into a new church in a small town. And good luck finding a seat that Marjorie So and So hasn’t been sitting in for 40 years.

I hate that a place that represents all that is good and loving and welcoming is often the place we are most judged. Judged for what we are wearing or how much we give or if our kids can sit still. And instead of telling me I’m welcome in their house of worship, I find that they would rather tell me other things.

They want to tell me who to vote for.

They want to tell me what to do with my body.

They want to tell my friends they are an abomination and don’t deserve rights.

They want to tell me that science is wrong.

They want to tell me all the reasons why their way is the only way.

And the more they want to tell me what to do, the more I want to do the opposite.

Now that it is the Christmas season, it will only get worse. This is the time of year when , many people (churchgoers and not) decide to start singing their annual “Keep Christ in Christmas” jingle far and wide. And I agree – I do. Despite the fact that most of the traditions of Christmas began as pagan rituals, the point of Christmas is a Christian one – the birth of Jesus. So without Christ, you have no Christmas.

And I agree that we go overboard with political correctness, calling them Holiday trees instead of Christmas trees and the like. But that’s where my opinions and those of a lot of other folks differ. So many take it further – this is a Christian country, they say. If you don’t like it, you can leave, they cry. Pretty soon, Christianity = patriotism and anyone who doesn’t agree is a communist America-hater, terrorist sympathizer. And it’s all because Jesus isn’t allowed in the schools anymore! GOD BLESS AMERICA!

And then I – and all the people out there like me, who feel the same way – go running screaming in the other direction, away from the thing I just moments ago was longing for! I find myself arguing the opposite side of what I believe, playing devil’s advocate (Devil! One Nation UNDER GOD!), when I don’t even want to!

It’s funny how the only thing that seems to be standing between me and religion is religion.

Healthy Choice Top Chef Inspired Café Steamers

2011-11-23T17:42:00.009-05:00

I was recently invited to try some new frozen entrées from Healthy Choice. I have eaten Healthy Choice entrees in the past and liked them, but I was especially excited to try these because Healthy Choice has partnered up with one of my favorite reality shows – Top Chef – to come up with some new and different meals that are both tasty andout! Finished! DONE! I can’t even think about taking another bite. But I hadn’t had a problem with Healthy Choice meals before (though I have tended to buy non-chicken meals in the past), so I was hopeful.

And, as it turns out, I had good reason. I’m pleased to report that the chicken in both of these meals tasted fresh, and was without even a trace of anything gag-worthy. I realize that doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement, but I know there are other chicken-phobes out there like me who will be happy to hear it. Anyway, on to the meals.

The first one I tried was the Grilled Chicken Marinara with Parmesan, which was grilled chicken tenderloins & broccoli in a marinara sauce over whole grain pasta. I had to threaten my son with bodily harm to stay away from it, because he thought it sounded and looked delicious. In the end, I shared it with him because he put on his “poor starving me” face. We both really liked it. I didn’t tell him that the pasta was whole grain (because heaven forbid he know it is healthy), and he didn’t notice any difference. I’ve never been a big fan of chicken and tomato sauce pairings, but this entrée had just the right amount of sauce – it didn’t overwhelm the flavor of the chicken, which I liked. And the broccoli was perfect – not mushy, like it often is in microwave meals.

My son liked it even more than I did, because he loves chicken parmesan, so I will definitely buy this again for him, since this – at 280 calories, 6g fiber, 20g protein, and only 4.5g fat – is far healthier than your average chicken parmesan, which often has more than twice the calories and more than three times the fat. Sometimes even more in popular restaurants.

Next up was the Chicken Linguini with Red Pepper Alfredo, which I was pretty sure I would like, and I was right. In fact, I loved it. As most of us know, on the “healthy scale” anything with the word “alfredo” in it falls somewhere between Heart Attack on a Plate and SATAN. In fact, a popular Italian chain restaurant lists their fettuccini alfredo as having 1,220 calories and 75g fat! So, at only 260 calories, 6g fat, 5g fiber, and 22g protein, it’s already a win. But even better – it was good. Again, the pasta didn’t have that weird texture that whole grain pasta has, the broccoli was perfectly cooked, and the chicken tasted fresh and was perfectly seasoned. And the red pepper gave the alfredo sauce an extra flavor boost.

I think the one if the reason these entrees are better than most of the microwave meals I have tried in the past is the unique way of cooking them. Instead of all the ingredients in a frozen chunk, which usually cooks unevenly, these are steamed in the microwave, with the sauce cooked separate from the rest of the meal, which you then stir together. This gives it a much fresher taste and better consistency than your average microwave meal. The pasta is al dente, the vegetables stay crisp and the meat stays tender. I will definitely be trying more varieties. In addition to the ones I tried, there are:

-Barbeque Seasoned Steak with Red Potatoes

-Chicken Fresca with Chardonnay

-Chicken Margherita with Balsamic

-Grilled Chicken Pesto with Vegetables

-Grilled Vegetables Mediterranean with Rice

-Roasted Chicken Marsala with Mushrooms

I think they all sound delicious! Like I said, I have enjoyed Healthy Choice in the past, but the partnership with Top Chef is bringing new, bold recipes that are often missing in meal choices for people looking for meals that are lower in calories and fat.

You can go to the Healthy Choice website to get more information, and their Offers & Promotions page has a $1 off coupon you can print and use if you want to try them out for yourself.

I was compensated by Healthy Choice & The Motherhood for reviewing these products, but I was not asked for a favorable review and the opinions expressed are all mine.

Late

2011-11-04T10:54:00.002-04:00

Before I met my husband, I was an “early person”. Not only was I never late for anything, I was early most of the time. Sometimes to a fault. But honestly, I’d rather get to where I am going too early and have to go in search of a cup of tea or spend some time reading a book until it’s time to do whatever it is I am doing than keep anyone else waiting for even one minute.

I’m not sure why I’m like this. My family, while not “late people,” certainly aren’t early-to-a-fault people like me. And I know that my early-itis isn’t exactly normal. I try not to show up too early and inconvenience anyone. I don’t expect other people to be as early as me, and I try (TRY) to be patient when others are late (and believe me, it is NOT easy). But while waiting for other people who are running late can drive me crazy, actually being late makes me absolutely INSANE.

So who did I marry? I’ll tell you who I married: Latey McLatepants, that’s who. He comes by it naturally. His family is chronically late for everything. Their last name should seriously be LateForEveryGoddamnedThing. And before you think I am exaggerating, here are some examples: There is one niece who – despite being charged with bringing food – will show up hours after an event starts. So four hours after the party starts, we finally get to eat. An entire branch of the family was so late to Mr b’s 50th birthday party that half the people already left before they got there (with some food and the cake, of course). One of my sisters-in-law’s surprise birthday party was unsurprising for her because several relatives showed up late: Just as she herself was arriving. And my own personal favorite: one sister-in-law was my wedding florist. And she was late. Despite my having told her that she time to arrive was a full hour earlier than reality. So all my pre-ceremony photos are sans flowers.

Sigh.

And now I have two kids, who are also making me late because a) they take after their father, and b) because they are kids and kids are slow-moving pains in the ass. So needless to say, my life is a constant struggle to try to be on time. A failing, miserable, anxiety-riddled struggle. Here is an average “getting ready to go somewhere” experience:

2 hours before we need to leave: I am ready.

1 hour 50 minutes before we need to leave: Start telling the other people in this house that we have less than two hours.

1.5 hours before we need to leave: I start asking people politely to start getting ready.

1.25 hours before we need to leave: No one is moving. I remind them again, still mostly polite.

1 hour before we need to leave: I make the girl start getting dressed.

50 min before we need to leave: I try to make the boy start getting dressed.

45 min before we need to leave: The girl is dressed. I tell her to brush her near-dreadlocked hair.

40 min before we need to leave: I yell at boy to start getting ready. I notice the girl still has dreads. She can’t find her brush. I find the brush & tell her to brush her hair.

35 minutes before we need to leave: Boy still not dressed. Girl? Dreads.

30 minutes before we need to leave: I rip the plug out of the TV/Xbox/computer/whatever it is that the boy is doing. Girl? Dreads.

25 minutes before we need to leave: Boy is (mostly) dressed. Can’t find socks. Girl? Dreads.

20 minutes before we need to leave: Boy still can’t finds socks, despite my very specific instructions. Girl has brushed her hair, but only the front and sides. The back? Dreads.

15 minutes before we need to leave: I have retrieved socks for the boy. Girl is crying about me brushing her hair.

10 minutes before we need to leave: Girl is ready. Boy is sitting on bed holding socks, looking dazed. I notice Mr b isn’t dressed. I tell him to GET DRESSED DAMMIT! His reply? "I can’t just get dressed – I need to shower!" Me: WTF?

5 minutes before we need to leave: Mr b is checking email. I threaten him. Boy is now holding one sock. The other is missing. I notice the girl has no socks on. Repeat missing sock dance from above.

Time to leave: Mr b in shower. Boy has one sock on. Girl is ready.

5 minutes after we needed to leave: Mr b can’t find clothes. Boy has found second sock, but is holding it, looking blank. Girl is loading up 17 bags with all her “necessities.” I am dying a slow death.

10 minutes after we needed to leave: Mr b is dressed, but can’t find comb/socks/belt/whatever. Boy? 2nd sock is halfway on. Girl? 18 bags. Me? Dying!

15 minutes after we needed to leave: Mr b is ready. Boy? Still only halfway with the 2nd sock. Girl is ready.

20 minutes after we needed to leave: Heading out the door. Oh wait – Mr b needs to take the dog out. The rest of us stand there, me fuming.

25 minutes after we needed to leave: Mr b is ready. I am ready. Boy? Needs his headphones. Can’t find them. Girl wants to change her shoes.

30 minutes after we needed to leave: Boy losing his shit because someone must have taken his headphones. Girl losing her shit because she wants different shoes. Mr b getting pissy because the rest of us (!) aren’t ready.

35 minutes after we needed to leave: boy is ready and still pissed about headphones. Girl has now added another bag of crap to carry. Mr b now has to pee. Me? DEAD.

Look at that dog!

2011-10-27T09:47:00.010-04:00

Last night was my small town's annual Halloween parade. We go every year - local businesses open up to trick or treaters, and afterward there is a parade through town with firetrucks & marching bands and social clubs throwing candy to spectators. It's something I have been doing since I was a kid, and it;s always fun. This year however, there was an added bonus.

In addition to the previously mentioned groups, individuals can walk in the parade and show off their costumes. you will see a lot of regular, store-bought costumes, along with some really creative ones. This year, the best I saw was a kid dressed as a Lego man. I don't have a photo, because I was so mesmerized by how perfect it was that I forgot I had a camera.

One staple of these parades is dogs in costumes. You will see dogs dressed as Steelers, dogs as bumblebees, dogs as princesses. One year, there was a tiny Cinderella in a carriage being pulled by dogs. This year, there was a Cruella de Vil with a bunch of dalmatians. And being the dog lovers that we are, if you sit anywhere near us, you will hear repeated, excited cries of, "Look at that dog!"

Toward the end of this year's parade, I saw a cute dog heading our way in a tutu and fairy wings. I pointed it out to the girl & her friend, knowing they would love it. But then it got a little closer and I noticed that Wait! That's not a dog! And those of you that know me will understand how much it pleased me to see what it really was:

Yes, my friends - that is a goat. A Tutu Fairy Goat. The only thing that would have made it better for me would have been if it had fainted from my camera flash. Best goat ever.

And as a bonus, her's my little Flamenco dancer:

And my insane son:

(he almost didn't wear it bevcause it was supposed to rain and apparenty wearing one of those in the rain can cause drowning. Or something)

Random Crap

2011-10-25T11:27:00.004-04:00

I’m sick. But I won’t say much about that because I hate whiny sick blogging. Also – I refuse to accept sickness because I have too many things going on, like the girl’s birthday and Halloween madness fun drunkosity. And dammit, I refuse to be sick.

I will, however, say this about being sick: My mother will drive me crazy one of these days. I know she loves me and cares about me. And I know she worries. I do it myself – one kid sniffles once and I’m running through all the horrible diseases on earth (and perhaps the universe) in my head, while remaining calm on the outside. So I get it. I really do. But, I swear, if I hear one more accusation & demand that “You better start taking care of yourself!” I will punch someone.

Despite what she seems to believe I do take care of myself. I’m not diving into biohazard bins at the hospital in my free time. I take vitamins. I try to eat (somewhat) healthy. I get a flu shot. But a few years back, I had H1N1 and it did a serious number on my immune system – I still get sick more easily, and illnesses seem to hit me a little harder than they did before. And I have these two things in my house. These germ-filled pastries known as “kids”. So, Mom? When I am sick, if what is coming out of your mouth is anything other than the following:

“Poor baby!”
“Let me make you some soup!”
“Can I take the kids for you?”
“Here is some Nyquil/Advil/wine.”

Then, please – I’m begging you: SHUT UP ABOUT IT ALREADY!

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In other news, I have the only golden retriever in the entire world that is not a love pig. Which is what makes the slobber & hair worth it. What the fuck?

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And I just got back from my annual work retreat at a lovely resort on the bay, where I had great food, lots of (free) booze, a massage, bike-riding, shopping and a sunset cruise. Only to return to a house that looks like pigs live in it. Not figurative pigs – actual farm pigs. And lots and lots of bullshit drama. So I am just going to think about this instead:

PSA

2011-10-18T09:47:00.008-04:00

A Public Service Announcment to you men out there: If your wife/girlfriend is freaking out about the Buick-sized, clearly evil, (wo)man-eating, hell spider, do NOT attempt to reassure her by saying, "There's probably a lot more than just that one." It will help her sanity and is probably better for your own safety, as well.

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And while we're on the subject of creepy crawlies, I had the opportunity to take the girl to the Bugs & Butterflies Ball at the Carnegie Museum this weekend. When I forst read about it, I was all set to take her. then I saw that the tickets were $125 and $50 and I figured we could stay home and have a Stinkbugs & Spiders Soiree for free. But I was lucky enough to win four tickets on the radio (by knowing my world geography, which I didn't think I knew), and not only were we able to go, we were able to take some friends.

It was a great event and the girls had so much fun. There was a yummy dinner, and open bar, crazy, beautiful, delicious desserets, anoyther open bar, crafts, a hilarious stilt walker named Carmen Louisa Conchita Miranda Chiquita Banana, a scavenger hunt, balloon animals, an opportunity to get a photo with Dino Dan, face painting, and lots of other fun stuff. We loved it. Oh, and we got to go behind the scvnenes to the Alcohol Room and see the creepy crawlies in jars. And there was fake poop to touch. What's not to love?

Like a Lightbulb Suddenly Went Off in His Head

2011-09-26T11:01:00.009-04:00

The girl is in her second year of cheerleading now and to say that her 14 year old brother is not particularly interested in watching 7 year olds compete in cheer competitions, or cheer on the football team is a vast understatement. Don't get me wrong, he'll drag along on some of the games to support her (and sometimes because we remind him that she has sat through approximately 5,000 hours of band concerts & festivals, jazz nights, musicals, basketball, soccer, baseball and football games). But in general, the words, "We're going to a cheer competition today" isn't generally met with celebration.

So when my BF invited him along with her family (her son is the boy's good friend) to her daughter's cheer competition, followed by a baseball game & a concert, his attitude was basically "Ugh! I have to sit through a cheer thing, but I'll suffer through for the game and concert." My response was to laugh at him. He came home that night & reported that he had a good time. I assumed he meant after the "cheer thing."

The next day, I was talking to my friend and she mentioned that the boys enjoyed the cheer competition after all, because they apparently let go of their "Eww, cheer" attitude long enough to notice that the cheer competition was filled with...wait for it...CHEERLEADERS!

Of course, as soon as I got off the phone with my friend, I teased him a little about trying to pick up cheerleaders. Instead of getting embarrassed like he sometimes does when I tease him he said, and I quote,

"Mom. Four numbers. FOUR! I'm going to ALL the cheer competitions now!"

Women vs Men: The Stress Edition

2011-09-22T11:39:00.002-04:00

This morning I was stressed because:

Despite me having woken him up TWICE already, the boy was still sleeping 15 minutes later. I started worrying about him being late and missing the bus and not eating and I yelled.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I yelled & disturbed him

This morning I was stressed because:

I discovered a stealth pile of dog poo in a most inopportune place. I was already dealing with the sleeping boy and now this. I swore loudly.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I was being loud

This morning I was stressed because:

I hadn’t finished filling out the girl’s fundraiser papers, and I was running out of time because I was dealing with the aforementioned sleeping boy and dog poo. I had to ask for help.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I asked him for help.

This morning I was stressed because:

Despite the fact that it has been burned out for a week, the light in my closet room was not yet fixed (because I can't do it myself) and I couldn’t find the clothes I was looking for. On top of the sleeping boy, the dog poo and the forms.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I asked him to fix it for the 8th day in a row

This morning I was stressed because:

After dealing with the forms and the poo and the boy and the burned out light, I still needed to found my clothes, but the flashlight wasn’t in the house, but in mr b’s van. And I needed it.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

He had to go out to his van to get me the flashlight.

This morning I was stressed because:

I left the house late after finally resolving the boy, the poo, the forms, the light, and finding the clothes, knowing I would be even later because I needed gas since mr b used my car a couple of times this week and I didn’t have time to stop on the way home last night because the girl had practice & I was rushing home to pick her up and get her fed & changed & dropped off, and then picked up & wait the fundraiser is due when and the dog needs a bath and oh great drop-bys from not one but TWO relatives and how is it 11:00 already, dammit? And now I was going to be even later which sucks because I have to leave early today to rush home and deal with dinner & picking up kids and getting the girl to practice and making it to the boy’s open house on time. And as I left the house, I heard mr b say, “What a morning!”

It all comes back to the Responsibility [[]]

Locked Out

2011-09-15T15:52:00.003-04:00

When I was growing up, my mom stayed at home with me. I always had a hot breakfast (unless I demanded Raisin Bran), always had snacks & dinner waiting when I got home, and always had a mom available during the day to come to school parties or pick me up if I got sick. Not that being a stay at home mom itself made her a good mom – I work outside the home and I’m a good mom - I’m just making the point that she was present – always at my beck and call.

Once I got into junior high, however, she stopped being quite as available. Which is fine – she had a right to a life – but it was more of a problem in 1980 than it is today. Remember – there were no cell phones, so if she wasn’t in the house and I or the school called – she couldn’t be reached. At times, I liked this. I loved the solitude of coming home to an empty house. I enjoyed following the recipes she left for me and getting dinner started. I felt grown up.

But at other times, I hated it. Like when I forgot something that I needed. Or if I wanted to go to a meeting or a friend’s house after school and couldn’t reach her to get her permission (I knew better than to just go). It was frustrating and there were times I resented her not being there (for many reasons). I learned to call my grandma (her mother) when I wanted to go somewhere, because Gram would always tell me yes and would stand up to my mother if she had a problem with it (Gram was – and at 92 – still is a badass).

My first year of junior high, I didn’t use the bathroom in school. I was terrified of stories (urban legends, really) of hazing that I heard went on in the bathrooms. So usually, by the time I got home, off the bus, and walked half a mile to my house (none of that right out front bus stop stuff back then), I usually had to pee relay bad. Really, REALLY bad. I would run into the house, drop my books all over the place (backpacks in those days were NOT cool), run like hell to the bathroom, and pee for about 5 straight minutes.

But one day, I got home and the door was locked. This was 1980 in a small town – we rarely locked our doors. But this day, for some reason, my mom did. So when I rushed down the walk & slammed into the door, only to find it locked, I pretty much lost it immediately. In addition to having to pee, I was tir4ed and freezing. There was about 8 inches of snow on the ground.

I immediately tried to get in a window, but my dad had recently painted them and they were stuck. We had a neighbor next door (the other neighbors were a lot further away) that we were friendly with and for a second, I thought about running over there, but I knew that I didn’t have time. I wouldn’t make it. And a millisecond later, it happened. I started to pee myself. Having a full bladder after avoiding the bathroom all day, I couldn’t stop it. And it went on and on. I was mortified. 30+ years and a couple of kids later, I wouldn’t even blink, but back then, I was filled with shame, even though there was no one around to see it. And since it was clear I had had a “potty” accident, there was no way I was going to the neighbors now. I just stood there, crying my eyes out and wondering what to do.

And for some reason, in my 12 or 13 year old mind, the solution was to sit in the snow. I guess I figured that if my pants were wet all over, it wouldn’t be obvious what had happened. So I did it. I sat down, already wet, in the almost foot deep snow. I rolled around. I let myself get good and wet. And when I was satisfied that I had camouflaged the problem, I got up & realized that I still didn’t know what to do. I stood there freezing, wet and tired and ashamed and cried some more.

Eventually, I found a tool my dad had left on the porch and used it to work at the dried paint around the window. I climbed in & immediately ran to my room to change. I was mad at my mom for not being there, mad at myself for not being able to hold it, mad at the hazers in the bathrooms that kept me from going in. I threw my pants in the washing machine (which was something I never did – my mom handled ALL the laundry) and jumped in the tub. My mom came home a few minutes later and I claimed I was cold and wanted a hot bath. I told her I threw the laundry in because I just wanted to help out.

As much as I wanted to yell and scream at her for not being there (and a lot of my anger went further than what had just happened – I was really mad at her not for not being there, but for being somewhere else), my shame was greater. So I kept my mouth shut. I never told her what had happened – how her not being there affected me. Instead, I just started getting hall passes and going to the bathroom during class. And I asked for a house key so I’d never get locked out again.

This post is part of Mama Kat's Writers Workshop

Christopher M. Panatier

2011-09-11T10:38:00.001-04:00

I didn’t know Christopher M. Panatier. I had never even heard his name until I heard it read along with 2,995 others. And though I know I heard it read, I don’t know that I really even took notice of it. 2,996 is a lot of names. It’s especially a lot of names when we’re talking about people who lost their lives.

Christopher Panatier was 36 on that day. Seven years younger than I am now. Many, many years younger, I’m sure, than anyone ever imagined they would lose him. Christopher was a foreign currency trader for Cantor Fitzgerald. I imagine he left for work that day in the towers thinking the worst thing he would deal with was traffic, or irritable clients, or a busy day. Instead, he – along with almost 3,000 others, lost his life in the one of the worst tragedies we have seen in this country.

Christopher was a husband, a father, a son. He married his high school sweetheart, Carolyn, and they had two children, Annie and Christopher. His children were only 6 and 4 when they lost him. Too young to lose their father. Especially to lose him that way. Too young to even understand how something like that could happen. But really, there is no age, no amount of knowledge or wisdom that could ever make sense of what happened that day.

Everyone who talks about Christopher seems to mention what an amazing, adventurous, and funny man he was. People were drawn to him.

So even though I didn’t know Christopher, I am remembering him along with the other innocent victims of the September 11th 2001 attacks. He was a good man, a good husband, a good father, and a good friend. Because of that, his legacy lives on.

He will be remembered not only for how he died, but for how he lived.

This post is a part of Project 2,966. Go there to see more tributes.

I Blinked

2011-08-30T10:32:00.017-04:00

I blinked and my sweet, silly little boy:

Turned into a long-legged, mustache-sprouting, sometimes angsty, taller-than-I-am high school student:

I blinked and my tiny, loving, bean of a baby girl:

Turned into a social butterfly, princess, cheerleading, fashionista second grader:

I blinked and my teeny, fuzzy, wobbly puppy:

Turned into a ginormous, hairy, clumsy, cat-fighting, garbage-picking dogbeast:

I really have to stop blinking

Wheeeeeee!

2011-08-24T13:59:00.003-04:00

Forget it, Kid

2011-08-19T23:10:00.004-04:00

Shameful Excess

2011-08-18T17:40:00.004-04:00

Last night, I was flipping through channels and came across a show called Outrageous Kid Parties. This show is just another in a long list of TV shows whose sole purpose seems to be to celebrate greed and selfishness and brattiness in both children and their parents. We’ve all seen or heard of (and most likely been disgusted by) shows like Toddlers & Tiaras, Dance Moms, and My Super Sweet Sixteen. And while some of the kids in these shows are pretty unappealing, it’s the parents who are truly heinous.

Outrageous Kid Parties is no exception. The basic premise is that the parents (usually the mother) of a child decide to throw a party for their child’s special day – whether that be a birthday, bar mitzvah, whatever. But the one that I found the most disturbing was a preschool graduation. No, really – preschool graduation party! Perhaps I’m a negligent mother for taking my preschool “graduates” to McDonalds & the like, because this mother spent almost $32,000 on a “Candy Fantasy Party” for her little 5 year old genius. He must be a genius, right? I mean – he graduated preschool! Only the super smart hard workers accomplish that and therefore deserve a party that costs more than most weddings.

I mean – it’s a tough job, that preschool. There’s coloring and circle time and songs and snack time! Oh wait – even the stupidest kid in the preschool gets to graduate. But they still deserve a party for their 300 closest friends! And don’t forget the $8,500 rock climbing wall as a “graduation” gift – every five year old you passes not shitting their pants 101 needs that, right? And professional dancers and an original song and multiple bouncy houses and $1000 of candy and circus acts and a mother that dresses in fishnets and a whore skirt & climbs the rock wall. Or in the case of the 6 year old’s birthday party, horses and petting zoos and a dog show and a specially designed tattoo and a monster truck limo and more professional dancers and a goddamned ferris wheel!

People - this is why the world hates us! I know there are times when I go too far and spend too much on my kids. I think we all do. But a trip to Build-a-Bear or a new Xbox game is a world different from what amounts to more than the median individual income. And in some of these examples, more than the median household income. The excess seen in these shows is disturbing and shameful. So very shameful.

The US economy is in the shitter. The unemployment rate is out of hand. People are losing their houses, their cars, the lives due to poverty. And around the world, famine is killing children - babies! And these people having $30,000+ parties because Junior graduated from preschool is like a slap in the face to all those people.

Of Course

2011-08-15T09:07:00.007-04:00

What we said:

"You can go in, but you can only get your feet wet."

What they said:

"OK - we'll only get our feet wet."

What actually happened:

.

Rocky

2011-07-28T09:28:00.006-04:00

When the boy was two, we lost our beloved golden retriever, Cosmos. It was a rough time for me, and I was nowhere near ready to get another dog. Mr b, however, kept pushing for it. I wasn’t ready and told him so, but I could see that he was constantly thinking about it. One day, I came home from work and mr b and the boy weren’t home. Not that this was particularly unusual, but that day, I just had a feeling. And then I saw the local newspaper open to the classifieds and that feeling got stronger. A few minutes later, they came home & when I asked where they were, mr b said they had gone to the grocery store. I sighed in relief because my feeling was wrong – I was not ready. Mr b went out to the car to get the groceries and I picked up the classified to throw them away before he got any ideas, and the boy turned to me and said the words that changed my life:

“Daddy got a puppy!”

Admittedly, I wasn’t happy, but then mr b walked in with a goofy, bumbling black lab mix puppy & I couldn’t help but love him. He was a few months old, already and not well-trained (which would be my biggest frustration ove rhte next few years. Mr b had come across an ad by an elderly woman who recently lost a dog and replaced him with a brand new, cute as a button black lab. Well, she soon realized that a new puppy was too much for her (and her remaining old dog) to take, so she gave him up for adoption. And then he was ours. She had named him Boris, which was possibly the worst name for him, ever, so he immediately became Rocky.

Over the years, he turned into a great dog. He was so loving – as a young dog, he would practically try to wrap himself around your head like a turban. And he never outgrew the need to constantly be touching you. He was funny – we’d put him in costumes (like a while polyester jumpsuit – and call him Smellvis) and put things on his head and he’d take it like a champ. He was protective – he’d bark at anyone and anything that came near our house. It could be annoying at times, but I always appreciated it – when there was a rash of burglaries & fraud in the area perpetrated by an Irish Traveler-like group going door to door, he scared them off when they came to his door. He was a love pig, but he sounded like a quivering, snarling, white hot ball of canine terror (Family Dog, anyone?). He was gentle – we often found him curled up with a cat or a kid.

One of his most prominent traits, though, was that he was nervous. And what did he do when he was nervous? He shits He shit Big. Some examples:

Your son has a friend over. The friend’s dad and sister come to pick him up. The kids start playing Twister. Rocky is nervous about the strangers and shits on Twister.

It’s Christmas morning. There is much squealing and yelling and wrapping paper being strewn about. Rocky is nervous about the excitement and shits on Christmas.

Mr b is picking up the boy from daycare. He takes Rocky along. He stops at the ATM machine and gets back in his work van. While he is out, Rocky, nervous about being alone in the van, ignores the 3000 square feet of floor space in the van, and instead somehow balances himself and shits on the driver’s seat. Husband does not notice as he gets in, and sits on the driver’s seat. Husband contemplates murder.

You are 7 months pregnant (and in high-gagging mode). Your 2 cousins come to visit. They pet and love Rocky. When he walks away, all present get the “who farted?” look. Rocky, nervous about the stock market, shits on said cousins’ feet. Cousins contemplate murder. You contemplate barfing. The boy cracks up.

You are 9 months pregnant, and driving Rocky to the groomer. This is already a trauma, since Rocky is not a Car Dog. He is flailing about, falling down, hitting the dashboard and being a pain in the ass. In the middle of a call to the office, you get the “who farted?” look. Apparently, Rocky is nervous about automobile travel and shits on the passenger seat. Rocky is suddenly in the backseat, crying softly. You contemplate barfing. You decide it’s a fine idea and do so. You call Husband and tell him of your murder plans.

Despite all that, he turned out to be one of the best dogs I’ve ever known. And now he is gone. I miss my loving, funny, protective, gentle, nervous puppy.

The Vacation That Almost Wasn't

2011-07-20T18:23:00.002-04:00

The days leading up to vacation were stressful. In fact, the minutes leading up to vacation were stressful. I am a bit OCD when I have stuff to do (not with cleaning the house or anything – just when I have to prepare for something) – I tend to run through the list of things to do in my head over and over and over until I can’t concentrate on anything – including said list. It’s like this every vacation, every Christmas, before every party. I work myself into a complete stressed out frenzy until either a) the event happens, or b) my head explodes. The only cure for this is actually getting everything done, so I usually have all my vacation shopping done at least a week in advanced, and have suitcases sitting out, packed with anything we don’t need a few days ahead of time.

But this year, that didn’t happen. I was busy with work and the kids were busy with their activities – so I didn’t have any free time to get these things done. And mr b works for himself, so he had about one million billion loose ends to tie up before we left, so he had no time to help, either (and let’s be honest, he wouldn’t be much help anyway). This meant that the last few days before we left Saturday morning were insane. I found myself using any free moments to try and get things done. I was running to hellmart & sporting goods stores late at night, doing laundry in between , dragging suitcases out while I cooked dinner. All this made me stressed and crazy. But finally, Friday came and I thought I’d have everything done by early evening, so we could leave at the planned 4:00 am.

HAHAHAHAHA

Nope – instead, mr b worked late, I had to run the kids around, and I ended up packing until 1:30 when I finally had to collapse on the couch for a a teeny bit of sleep. 4:00 quickly turned into 5:00, because after I slept until 3:30, we still had to load up the van. And then 5:00 became 5:30, then 6:00, then 6:30, then 7:00. It was a tense morning, because I HATE being late. It doesn’t matter is the planned time is set by someone else or by me – if I plan on leaving or arriving somewhere at a certain time, any deviation (that isn’t early) makes me crazy. But finally, at 7:00, both vehicles were packed and ready (we had to take two because my car is suckishly small – too small for just our family and luggage, much less our family, The Boy’s friend, the ~~beast~~ dog, our luggage, bikes, outdoor gear, and other various random crap. And the minute we pulled out of the driveway, I started to calm down.

It wasn’t a long drive (less than seven hours – I know that is long to some, but I happen to like road trips) – but with stops to eat, gas up, pee, sightsee at the New River Gorge, and let the ~~beast~~ dog get out and burn off some of that puppy energy, it ended up being about 8 hours. Still not a bad drive, but being cooped up in the car with three kids, no lumbar support, and a raging case of “driver’s knee” (my previously injured from skiing/gymnastics/diving right knee doesn’t do so well when it’s pretty much in the same position for that long and hurts terribly), I was good and ready to get there.

Needless to say, we were all pretty happy when we pulled onto the road where our cabin was located. In fact, we were downright giddy at the prospect of claiming our rooms, unpacking our stuff and jumping in the river out back on our tubes.

But that all went to shit when we pulled up to the cabin and saw four cars parked in the driveway.

We knocked on the door and the people told us they were renting from Friday to Friday (our reservation was from Saturday to Saturday). My first thought was that we were the victims of the growing vacation scam industry. But I called the real estate after hours line and got a call back pretty quickly. The woman told me it was impossible to have a double booking because of their computer system (and we all know that computers are infallible, right?). She asked us to meet her at the office about 15 minutes away, so we could figure things out.

So off we went, much less giddy and with stress levels rising and headed to the office. On the way there, I got a call from the realty office owner and she said the words that nearly gave me a heart attack on the spot:

“Your reservation is for next week.”

What?

WHAT???????

Yes – we had been sent a confirmation email and after checking it once we got home, it did say that the reservation was for the 15th. And somehow we never noticed (because we already KNEW when our reservation was). But regardless of what the papers said, I know what I booked. And I booked the 8th. In fact, after I booked, I checked the website to make sure our dates were blocked off on the calendar – and they were. The realtor told us that the people in the cabin had made their reservation the week after we did, so that week should not have shown up as booked when I checked. But it did.

Of course, we had no proof of anything, so we were up shit creek. I sat in the parking lot of the office feeling absolutely sick. In fact, I was sick. I puked right there in their lot (and nearly passed out), agonizing over what we were going to do. We couldn’t just turn around and go home only to come back again the following week. But what were we going to do?

Luckily, the realtor was extremely nice and found us another place. Unluckily, we had to pay for it. On top of the already paid-for original reservation. Because she was the owner, she was able to help us out with a large discount and she promised to try and rent out our original cabin for the following week so we could get our money back. We were relieved, not to mention thanking our lucky stars that we just so happened to have a little extra money to take care of it – there are times that we wouldn’t have.

Once we got it all settled, we headed to our new place, which turned out to be much bigger and in a far better location for our needs. We ended up having one of the best vacations ever, and our magic realtor managed to rent the first place to someone else, so it all worked out in the end.

But I am still bothered by what happened. I am not saying that I couldn’t have made a mistake – I certainly could have. A couple of things bother me, though. 1) the booking showing up on the website, even though the people who had it that week supposedly booked the week after us. Also – the week after we booked – the original employee who was helping us suddenly became scarce. I got things taken care of by other agents, but she personally didn’t return my calls or emails. It was irritation, but like I said – things got done anyway, so I didn’t worry too much about it. And the clincher – the employee who seemed to disappear around the same time that the other folks booked “our” cabin? She was related to those folks. So, yeah.

Regardless, we all had a great time and the owner was so sweet and helpful that I would actually rent the second place again. Only if I do, I’ll be sure to talk to the owner directly and go over every single document with a fine tooth comb. Oh – and I’ll get my packing done ahead of time, too.

Blame

2011-07-08T07:30:00.021-04:00

All I have been hearing over the past few days is outrage over the Casey Anthony verdict. And I get it - I do. It is outrageous that a woman who most likely killed her child is walking free. I'm outraged, too. But we need to think twice about who we blame. I'm not sure who is to blame. Did the prosecutors not do a good enough job? Maybe. Should we blame the defense? No - they were doing their job. One thing I know - we shouldn't be blaming the jury, and yet that's what I am seeing time and time again.

Having been on a jury for a somewhat high profile, criminal trial, I feel for those jurors. You're puled away from your normal life and thrown into an emotionally charged, high pressure, absolutely exhausting situation and the whole world (or the whole country or state or city or even just the victim's family) is looking to you todo something - to fix it. You might be able to deliver a guilty verdict - the thing everyone is hoping for- but even if you do, it doesn't fix it. The crime was still committed. What was done is still done.

But after a horrible crime, the only thing left to cling to is that guilty verdict - putting the bad guy in prison or on death row. That's a lot of pressure for the average person. It was a lot of pressure for me. I was on a jury for a kidnapping/rape trial. It was exhausting and heart wrenching. You are supposed to be neutral, but it's impossible not to look at the victim and their family and feel their pain, even just a little. You want to do what's right for them, but your job is to do what's right for everyone - what's right for the justice system, and sadly they aren't always the same thing.

There are a lot of things wrong with our justice system - trials are delayed, courts get mired in ridiculous lawsuits, evidence is mishandled and worst of all (to me) are the completely ass-backward sentences. Many child molesters spend less than a year in prison. Rapists serve about 6 years on average. And yet you commit a monetary crime and the sentence is longer than many murderers serve. Jim Bakker received 45 years for embezzlement. Now, I'm not saying that financial crimes don't deserve a tough punishment - they do. But what does it say about our society when an embezzler gets 45 years and a child molester gets less than one?

So yes - our justice system isn't perfect. But the juries are not to blame. The juries are just doing their job to the best of their abilities. Juries aren't made up of legal experts and psychologists and social workers. Juries are made up of teachers and mechanics and engineers and students and housewives and grandfathers. Some are educated, some aren't. Some have kids, some don't. Some will cry along with the victims, some won't feel a thing. but the one thing they (usually) have in common is that they want to do a good job. They want to do what's right. And sometimes what's right isn't what what they want or feel or what is best for the victims.

At the trial I was on, there were 21 counts - ranging from rape and other sexual charges to robbery to kidnapping. We easily found him guilty on 20 of those charges. But the 21st charge threw us for a loop. It was a weapons charge, and while you would think that the kidnap/rape charges would be more important, this was a big one. This charge meant a HUGE increase in jail time. And I'm sure the victim & her family were disappointed to hear the not guilty verdict on that one charge, we did what we had to do.

Every single one of us felt that he was guilty - that he had had a weapon (a big scary knife). But as a juror, it is your job to take what you feel out of it and base your decision on the evidence. And the evidence wasn't there. The prosecution couldn't prove to us beyond a reasonable doubt that a weapon was used and we couldn't come back with a guilty verdict. It sucked. But it was also the right thing to do.

Our justice system has problems - I know that. But not because the juries aren't trying to do their job and do it right. After hearing all the evidence, the juries are given their instructions, and those instructions are very clear about evidence and testimony and reasonable doubt. And you go into that room wanting to do what is best for the victim, what's best for society and still follow the rules. It's a lot of pressure. And often, outsiders - people who complain about the outcome - haven't heard all the evidence. Or the jury's instructions. And most off all, they are basing their opinion on their emotions - their outrage. Not on reasonable doubt.

When I read news stories about how the jurors in the Anthony trial are being threatened, that the courts have to protect them from possible harm, it makes me sad. Don't blame the juries - they are doing the best they can with what they are given. And while sometimes the verdict isn't what we all want or think is warranted, the system is set up the way it is for a reason. And I for one, believe in it. Because as much as I hate the idea of the guilty going free, I hate the idea of the innocent being convicted even more.

Sometimes you get one

2011-06-27T14:38:00.010-04:00

I post a lot more photos of The Girl than The Boy. It's not because of any bias or favoritism, but because it;s harder to get photos of The Boy. Unlike The Girl, who has a spidey sense about a camera in a 50-foot radius and starts posing, he's either off running, or hiding from the camera (because god forbid his hair is messed up - and seriously? He's killing me with the hair.)

So while it's nothing for me to get this from The Girl:

With The Boy, I often have to chase him around, only to get this:

But every once in a while, I get lucky:

It's worth all the chasing.

I Smell the Sea!

2011-06-17T07:21:00.002-04:00

Since the kids and I are heading out in a few minutes to drive to the beach, I thought I'd share a conversation from a few years back when the kids, my dad and I were making the same trip:

The Boy (In Berkeley Springs, West Virginia): I smell the sea!

Me: Dude – we’re almost 300 miles from the sea, you don’t smell the sea.

The Boy: Yes I do! I smell the sea salt.

Me: No.

The Boy (In Winchester, Virginia): I smell the sea!

My Dad: No you don’t – we’re still 200 miles from the sea.

The Boy: Yes I do!

My Dad: No.

The Boy (In Fredericksburg, Virginia): I smell the sea!

Me: OMG – 100 miles from the sea! You do NOT smell the sea!

The Boy: Yes I do!

Me and My Dad: No – you don’t.

The Boy: Yes I do! I smell it. I know what the sea smells like and that is the smell of the sea.

Me and My Dad: No.

The Boy (coming out of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel): What’s that smell?

Me and My Dad: THE SEA!!!!!!!!!

Cat versus Dog

2011-06-14T15:42:00.013-04:00

Dog: "I'm biting you! Woooo!!!"

Cat: "Go away!"

Cat: "No really - GO AWAY!"

Cat: "I'll pound your head!"

Cat: "I'll bite your ears!"

Cat: "I'll eat your lips!"

Dog: "Still biting you! I'm biting your leg!"

Cat: "BAD DOG!"

Cat: "I kill you!"

Dog: "You don't scare me! I'm biting your butt!"

Cat: "OWWWWWWW!"

Dog: "Now I'm eating your arm! Delicious!"

Cat: "Go! AWAY!!"
Dog: "Uncle!"

Signs of Summer

2011-06-08T14:53:00.005-04:00

Academic awards!

Soccer is over!

Mini Golf!

End of the year luau party!

Stoopid

2011-06-06T11:17:00.003-04:00

Apparently I am a big copycatting copycat because every time burghbaby writes a blog post, I find myself thinking – ooo yeah – I can talk about that, too! But since a recent post was about childhood stupidity, she doesn’t mind me copying her. I think it’s because she likes to hear how stupid I have been. And I have been spectacularly stupid.

While I never used a Slip n Slide indoors like burghbaby, I did use one on a hill. With a rubber raft. And baby oil. And because we lost the pegs that hold the plastic slide down, we figured big rocks and bricks would work. Needless to say, one of the other participants ended up with a bloody, broken face.

And then there was the sled riding down a giant hill in the middle of the street. We’d go all the way to the top of the neighborhood and WHEEEEEE down 5 blocks to the bottom, risking our lives the whole way – particularly at every intersection, since not all of them had stop signs.

Or the time my friend Carol and I found some un-exploded firecrackers and decided to set them off. We were about 7 at them time. Stupid enough as it is, but one of them didn’t have a fuse. And being raised by a MacGyver kind of dad, I figured I would just make one, instead. So I stuffed a dried stem in there and lit it. And you know what? A dried stem doesn’t have the same slow burn as a firecracker fuse. It immediately burned down and exploded in my hands. I didn’t have feeling in three if my fingers for an entire month. I never told my parents and suffered in silence because I was afraid to get in trouble.

But my stupidity peaked –as it generally does – in my teen years.

Evidenced by the time My friend Tee and I decided to shoot her brothers bow in the house. Inside her parents tiny 12x12 bedroom. The arrow embedded in their headboard was not easily explained.

Or the time we had a (comparatively) warm day in January when there was about a foot of snow on the ground. And we decided to lay out. In bikinis. On the roof. That was covered in snow. Which led to talk of swimming in the summer. Which led to getting out the baby pool, hooking the hose up to the sink, and running it out the window and filling the pool with hot water. Which led to the idea that it was like a Jacuzzi, but that it needed bubbles. Which led to adding more hot water and a bunch of dish soap. Which led to hives. Luckily, it didn’t lead to hypothermia or pneumonia.

Bu the perhaps the biggest boneheaded move I ever made was when Tee’s sister B and I decided we wanted to play with some sparklers. But it was hot outside, so we thought we’d do them inside. After burning a couple, we started getting all science-y and wondering about the “coating” and how it worked. So we crumbled several of them, piled it in a glass ashtray (one of those fancy ones from back in the day) and lit it. It was pretty cool. Especially the part where it burned so got that it melted the freaking glass.

But it doesn’t end there! In the excitement of the melting ashtray, we somehow managed to drop a regular burning sparkler and not notice until it burned a several inches long, black scar into the thick, red living room carpet (did I mention that we were doing this in the middle of the newly redone living room?). We were dead and we knew it. But how are we still alive to tell the story, you ask? Remember I told you I was raised by MacGyver? Well, I came up with a solution. First, I got a razor – not a razor blade or anything, but a disposable Bic – and shaved off as much of the burnt carpet as I could. This left a slightly browned indent. Next, I got a red crayon that matched the carper perfectly, heated it a little and colored over the burn. And somehow it worked! There was a slight depression, but not really very noticeable. We were hoping it would buy us enough time to be able to play stupid when we were questioned, but the questioning never came. Despite Tee’s father’s eagle eye and her mother’s obsessive cleaning, no one ever noticed. We told them about it years later, when we were grown and they were redecorating the room again and they were shocked that they never knew. They did, however, bring up the arrows in their headboard…

Sadly, these are just a small sampling of my childhood stupid moves – I could go on for days with the rest. So tell me – what was the stupidest thing you did as a kid?

Reading is Fundimental

2011-06-01T15:40:00.005-04:00

I was an early reader – like seriously early. As in: a toddler. These days, with all the crazy baby reading programs and all that crap, it doesn’t sound like much, but in those long gone days of no pre-school and kindergarten being basically play time, and general laid-back learning plans, it was definitely well out of the norm.

The difference between the baby readers of today and the baby readers of my day is basically that in my day, if your baby could read, it was because your baby was a natural reader and not because crazy parents were already thinking about Harvard. My mom will tell anyone who listens that while she read to me every day, I taught myself to read. She says that started reading early because I was a messy eater. See, whenever I sat down to eat, my mother – trying to keep me from getting breakfast all over her clean house – used to line the table and under the chair with newspaper. So while I ate, I would “read” the paper, asking my mom what this word and that word were. Eventually, I went from “reading” to actually reading, and I haven’t stopped since.

I was the kid that would be on the silver or gold level SRAs while my classmates were on the yellow or brown. I was the kid who took a book with me everywhere (I still do). I was the kid who had special permission at the library to check out more books than was generally allowed because I devoured them. I was the kid whose aunt and grandma would rush to the store the very day a new Trixie Belden was released, because I couldn’t wait another minute. I was the one whose reading teacher bought her books for Christmas because she wanted to share non-curriculum books with a student she knew would appreciate them (and btw, I am still in touch with that teacher and still sharing books).

It’s funny, though – anyone you would ask would tell you that reading is a great thing. And yet, reading gets no respect, as far as hobbies go. My mom was proud of my reading abilities and yet I can’t even begin to count how many times I heard, “Get your nose out of that book!” People who read a lot often get labeled bookworms or nerds or antisocial (because they would prefer to read than socialize).

I myself have been reprimanded for reading at family functions, accused of avoiding people. I have heard people make comments about myself and others reading in a restaurant or other public place when alone, saying that people who do that are insecure and they use their book as a barrier so they don’t have to interact or to hide their embarrassment at being alone. Maybe some people do that, but maybe – you know – they just like to read!

And then there are the defensive non-readers. The people I have previously described are just a bit clueless, I think, but these people are annoying! Here’s the thing – read, don’t read – unless you’re my kid, I don’t care. Be who you are and own it! I know a lot of people that look down on crappy TV. I am not one of those people. I love crappy, trashy, awful TV shows and I don’t care who knows it. It doesn’t mean that I am not smart or don’t know how to do other, more productive things. But defensive non-readers don’t get this. Instead of having the attitude of hey - don’t like to read, but that doesn’t make me an idiot, they instead act like idiots and put down people like me – people who do read.

I’m sick to death of being insulted by the defensive non-reader. They don’t outwardly insult readers (because like I said – anyone would agree that reading is a good thing). Instead, they drop passive-aggressive insults. Mainly, “Oh, I don’t have time to read!” I can’t tell you how many variations of this I have heard over the years. And yes – I do know that it is hard to find time to read. But we all make time for the things we want to make time for, whether it’s reading, or pedicures, or girl’s night out, or shopping, or going to a movie. And while it isn’t the actual words I & don’t & have & time & to & read that bother me – the tone with which they are said will get me every time. That and the little extras:

Oh, it’s nice that you read. I don’t have time to, though!

I don’t have time to read – I’m just too busy!

I don’t have time to read – I like to spend time with my children!

I don’t have time to read – I work!.

Please allow me to respond:

Fuck you. I’m busy, too, and I read. I also love to spend time with the kids. Sometimes we spend it reading. I work, too. And have a long commute. And two busy kids. And a house and cars and dogs and a cat and fucking hermit crabs and a family who is constantly having parties and friends who I get together with occasionally and a computer I’m addicted to and on and on and on with all the things you do, and guess what? I still read!

If you don’t read, I don’t think I’m better than you or smarter than you, but give me the same respect. If you don’t read – I don’t care. But I sure as hell am done being insulted by the implication that my avid reading means I am somehow lesser than you as a wife, mother, employee – whatever. And also? Fuck you.

I recently had several people (on different occasions) react like I am insane because I mentioned that The Girl wanted a nook (like mine) and that I was considering buying her one. Finally, by the third person, I was done smiling and biting my tongue. When I got the “A nook? That’s a lot of money to spend on something like that for a seven year old!” I responded with, “PS2 - $200, PS3 - $350, wii - $200, xbox - $300, PSP - $150, Nintendo DS - $150, ipod touch - $300+ – that’s a lot of money to spend for a child to pretend to kill people and play angry birds. There is no amount of money that is too much to spend to keep my child reading.”

Doesn’t anyone remember those old 70s commercials? Reading is fundamental.

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Chips! And Free Chips for You!

2011-05-26T11:17:00.007-04:00

Update: Free chip winners have been chosen!

Commenter #10 is Amber & commenter #4 is Shawna! Congrats, guys. Send me your contact info and I'll pass it along to Shearer's.

I love chips. No – that’s an understatement. I really, REALLY love chips. I am totally serious when I say that if there were an entire chocolate cake in front of me and I had to choose between it and a bag of chips I would take the chips 99% of the time. And the 1% when I took the cake? Immediately upon finishing it, I would want – you guessed it – CHIPS.

So, needless to say, when Shearer’s contacted me to see if I would like to try their new line of chips and share them with some friends, I got as far as the word “chips” before I started yelling “Oh HELL YEAH!”

Shearer’s told me they’d be sending me a whole bunch of chips, but I had no idea what “a whole bunch” meant until the giant box arrived at my doorstep. Since my schedule was a little crazy, I couldn’t have my “chip party” for a few weeks, so the time between the chips arriving and the chip party was pretty much spent like this:

The Boy: Can I have some of those chips?
Me: No – they are for the chip party.
The Boy: Come on! Let me have some of those chips!
Me: No – they are for the chip party!
The Boy: Now?
Me: No.
The Boy: Now?
Me: No.
The Boy: Now?
Me: No.
The Boy: NOW?
Me: NO!

Luckily, I managed to keep him out of the chip pile until it was time to share them with some friends. And there were plenty to share:

The photo doesn’t even clearly illustrate the sheer volume of chips – there were a TON. And man, were they good. Also – the silver bags were temporary packaging – in the stores, you’ll see pretty bags.

First off, there were the classic potato chips – they sent us Classic, Rippled, Barbeque, and Sour Cream and Onion. They were all good, but Rippled seemed to be the favorite. The BBQ chips are really good, too – the flavor is just right – lots of it, but not overwhelming. And the thing I love best about the “non-flavored” varieties is that they had just the right amount of salt. Unsalted is too bland, but many brads use WAY too much salt. These were just right. And the extra-awesome thing about Shearer’s potato chips is that they have recently been revamped – they are now made with 100% High Oleic Canola Oil, which means no trans fat. If I am going to eat chips like the crazy chip-lover that I am, it’s nice to know they are a little more healthy now!
They also sent along some of their non-potato chips, like Riceworks and Shapers.

Riceworks are made with brown rice and they are YUMMY. We tried the Sweet Chili, Parmesan and Sun Dried Tomato, and the Sea Salt. A couple of people liked the Sea Salt best, but I couldn’t get enough of the Sweet Chili. I like that these are a healthy snack that are still packed with flavor. All of the flavors went well with the dips we had (hummus, French onion, and some kind of cheddar and bacon). They have a couple more flavors, and I intend to try them all. Because in addition to being delicious, these snacks are all natural, with no preservatives or artificial colors. They are low in saturated fat, have no trans fat and are wheat and gluten free. They have no cholesterol and they have 33% less fat than regular potato chips.

Lastly, we tried the Shapers, which are whole grain chips. They are packed with nutritious fiber and whole grain (obviously) – each serving has 19 grams of whole grains, so they are hearty as well as delicious. And they have no (or low in the case of Cheddar) saturated fat. What surprised me about the Shapers is how light and crispy they are. Some brands of whole grain chips are thick – more like a tortilla chip – but Shapers were thin and crispy like a potato chip. So you can get the “feel” of a potato chip with the nutrition of a whole grain chip. These were my favorites. We tried the Sea Salt and the Black Bean and Salsa flavors. And let me tell you, after a couple of the Black Bean and Salsa ones, I grabbed them, ran from the room and hid in a corner, threatening anyone that got too close to me and my Precious…I mean Shapers. I loved them THAT MUCH. I can’t wait to try the additional flavors of Cheddar and Cinnamon. Especially the Cinnamon, because dessert chips? I am IN!
Anyway, thanks to Shearer’s for the opportunity to try out some yummy new ~~addictions~~ snacks. We all had a great time and everyone (even the camera shy who don’t want their photos published) agreed that we would be buying more in the near future!

And now I have something for YOU. Leave me a comment and tell me what your favorite snack is, and I will randomly select TWO winners to each receive 5 bags of Shearer’s chips! It’s party season now, so I am sure these could come in handy. Or you could hide them from all those vultures and keep them all for yourself. Either way – delicious! I'll draw the winners on Friday.

And now the legal stuff: Shearer’s provided the chips and a grocery gift card for me to throw a chip party, but they had nothing at all to do with what I have written. My crazy, obsessive chip-love for Shearer’s is all mine.

No Dogs Allowed

2011-05-25T10:43:00.008-04:00

The puppy (I have a hard time calling him that because he’s an enormous beast) – who was suspiciously not in his crate – wandered into the bedroom last night and jumped up on the bed with me. I was too ~~lazy~~ tired to get up and put him in the crate, so I figured, what the hell, I’ll let him sleep in here with me tonight. Big mistake. Because while I got in bed thinking, “Ahhh…sleep”, he was thinking something a little more like this:

“I’m in the bed! IN THE BED!! Wooo!!!! First I think I’ll run over her! And then over here! And here! And wheee - I’m over here now!! WOOOOO! I can jump! Yay, jumping! Jump! Jump! Jump! JUMP!! Wait, what’s that? Grrrr…woof! Hey! I’m on the bed! Wooooo! I love the bed! It’s for bouncing! BOUNCE! BOUNCE! This is fun! Wheeee! A CAT! YAY! Jump! Bounce! I’m on this side! Now I’m on this side! Whoa – TAIL! Get it! Get it! Get it! GOT IT!! Around and around and around and around and around! Where’d it go? THERE! POUNCE!! I think I’ll lay down now. THUMP! Mmmmmm…my toenails! Chomp crunch crunch CHOMP CRUNCH! What’s that? What is it?? SOMEONE’S FOOT! GET IT!! Jump JUMP POUNCE! Grrr! My BUTT! Lick! Slurp! Lick! Licklicklicklicklick! BURP! I wonder if I can roll over my person? OMG! FUN!! Roll roll roll rollrollrollROLLROLLROLL! WHEEEEEE!!! Hey! I’m back on this side again! Now this side! Now this side! WOOOOOO!!!!!

Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep. Let's see if he cares:

That's what I thought.

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I Smell the Smelly Smell of Something That Smells Smelly

2011-05-20T14:37:00.001-04:00

I saw a clip from one of the morning shows this week that was talking about odd beauty products and one of the ones they featured was Demeter fragrances. This company has a ton of different scents for reasonable prices. Sounds pretty good, right? So I figured I’d check out the website and see what they had to offer. And boy do they have some doozies.

I’ll admit - some of these are normal fragrances, like lilac or patchouli. But others are “different”. Of those, some are understandable – salt air (Kramer was onto something), or maybe snow (which sounds like it might smell good, but the description says it includes the scent of “dust” and “earth, so I’m not so sure).

And while they are odd, scents like play-doh and crayon are fun, if not particularly wearable. But then it starts getting weird:

Tomato (delightful for eating, but I don’t want to smell like it.

Laundromat (I don’t know what it’s like where you are, but most Laundromats I’ve been to smell like Tide and hangovers – I can get that in my own basement on a Sunday) .

Gin & Tonic (I can smell my friends for that one).

Wet Garden (I imagine this one smells like worms – oh wait – they have one called “Earthworm”, too! Yum)

Dirt (their description says that it “was made to smell exactly like the dirt from the fields around the Pennsylvania family farm belonging to our founding perfumer. “ So…manure, then?).

Cannibis (the motto for this one is “Smell it, don't smoke it.” Now, I don’t know about you but I spent a whole lot of time in college trying to not smell like weed. I think they need to go back to the drawing board and make a perfume that makes weed smell go away. They’d make a mint).

Paint (also known as “headache in a bottle”).

Holy Water (this one would clearly burn if I put it on).

Turpentine (seriously? At $20 an ounce, I’ll pass. If I want to smell like turpentine, I’ll buy a whole quart of it for $8.99).

Tarnish (I don’t even know).

Stable (Sweaty horse. No really – it says right on the description: “sweet animal sweat”).

Funeral Home (No really – FUNERAL HOME. I have never once said “It smells like a funeral home in here” and meant it as a compliment).

Of course, I guess I can’t complain too much about Demeter perfumes, considering there is a company out there that makes scents like “Fat Electrician” and one that has to do with “secretions”, another that makes vagina-scented perfume, and yet another where the creator makes perfume out of HIS OWN SHIT. Delightful.

Vote!

2011-05-17T14:16:00.006-04:00

Don't forget folks - today is Election Day and you need to get out there and vote. Seriously. Here are some reasons why:

1. Because someone is talking about raising your taxes or reassessing your property or cutting your benefits or taking your land or raising your energy costs or lowering your wages or eliminating your job. Vote.

2. Because you love to run your big fat mouth about the government, and the problems in your country or state or city or borough. Vote.

3. Because we all should have the right to get married. Vote.

4. Because you're sick of making 75 cents on the dollar (or 68 or 57) compared to your white male counterpart.

5. Because even though you believe in God (or not), you understand that he doesn't belong in our schools. Besides, if he's in your heart, you don't need someone to lead you to him during recess anyway. Or because you think he does belong there. Vote.

6. Because you have no social life and fucking with the last-minute campaign workers is fun. As they thrust their literature at you, hand them your card. Or a losing lottery ticket. Or a playing card. Or a tootsie pop. Or a scientology brochure. Have fun with it. Vote.

7. Because there are people in government who will outright lie about statistics in order to further their agenda that will result in illness and death of poor and uninsured women. Vote.

8. Because if some politicians have their way, women and girls who are victims of rape and incest seeking abortions will have to prove it to the IRS or be audited. Vote.

9. Because there's nothing on TV at that time anyway. Vote.

10. Because you're damned sick and tired of hearing about more and more (and more) casualties. Vote.

11. Because voting is HOT! Vote.

12. Because the US Supreme Court is upholding a school’s decision to kick a teenage rape victim off the cheerleading squad for refusing to cheer for her convicted rapist. And making her pay $45,000 in the school’s court cost. Vote.

13. Because you can. Vote.

14. Because you should. Vote.

15. Because the notion that blind allegiance = patriotism needs to abolished once and for all. Vote.

16. Because we are still blaming the victim. Even though the victim is 11 and she was raped by 18 men. Vote.

17. Because regardless of what you thought of the outcome, Election 2000 should never happen again. Vote.

18. Because too many people are still displaced in the southeast US. Vote.

19. Because poverty is still a huge problem in the US. Vote.

20. Because I said so. Vote.

21. Because breathing other people's smoke sucks. Vote.

22. Because you want control over your own body. Vote.

23. Because no book should ever be banned. Vote.

24. Because not many of us can afford college. Vote

25. Because more than 40 million Americans are without health insurance. Think this doesn't affect you? You're wrong. These people end up using emergency rooms for basic healthcare, which clogs up the system, resulting in inferior care and increased costs for everyone. Vote.

26. Because over 17 million children in the US go to bed hungry every night and don't know when their next meal will come. Vote.

27. Because that Native American from the 70s? Still crying. Vote.

28. Because you do not need an AK47 to kill a deer. Vote.

29. Because almost 50 years later, we're still not judging people by the content of their character. Vote.

30. Because the suffragettes and the civil rights workers didn't their bust their asses for you to sit on yours. Vote.

31. Because as much as it sucks, picking the lesser of the two evils is better than letting everyone else pick for you. Vote.

So, in case you didn't get me: Please Vote.

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Her abilities do NOT run in the family

2011-05-12T14:13:00.000-04:00

Considering that I don't run - ever (I'm saving up all my running for a time when it really matters - like a zombie apocalypse) and that her brother used to look at clouds and play in dirt on the soccer field, I was a little surprised at The Girl's skills. She plays all out and is not afraid to get in there and go after the ball.

Just don't tell her about that time Brandi Chastain ripped off her shirt on the soccer field. I have enough trouble on my hands with this one.

Running for Their Lives

2011-05-05T09:13:00.020-04:00

Parents all have the same worst fear - something happening to their kids. We all seem to know someone, whether in person or online, who has gone through the devastating experience of having a child with a life threatening illness. And most of us have cried for them, prayed for them, hoped and wished that we could do something to help them. Some of us have walked and marched and fund-raised and donated to help the charities that help these families, all the while trying to fathom the unfathomable - the possibility of losing a child.

Even if we can't understand what it it like, we can imagine it - while we don't intimately know the worry and pain and terror, the mere thought of it brings tears to our eyes - sympathy for the children themselves, for the parents, for the siblings who don't understand.

But if you thought that having a child with a life threatening illness was the worst thing a parent could endure, just imagine if you had it happen to two of your children. At the same time.

That's what happened to Laura Boyd, back in 1999. In mid-December 1999, the unthinkable happened - her son Adam was diagnosed with Stage IV Neuroblastoma. And then the just a week later - the even more unthinkable happened - her daughter Amanda was diagnosed with Stage III Neuroblastoma. One moment, they were a normal family, getting ready for Santa to visit and the next, they were a family going through every parent's worst nightmare TIMES TWO.

Amanda is now a healthy, happy teenage girl. But sadly, Adam lost his battle on January 8, 2004. And since then, Laura has made it her life's work to raise awareness and support of The Children's Neuroblastoma Cancer Foundation. It is her sincere hope that one day, no one will ever have to endure what her family did, and if her work helps contribute to that goal, then it is not in vain.

So what does she do?

She runs.

She runs to raise money. She runs to raise awareness.

She runs for their lives.

She started a running group, which has developed into Team Odyssey. And on May 15th, Team Odyssey will be running in the Pittsburgh Marathon to help The Children's Neuroblastoma Cancer Foundation help families like her own.

If you have a few bucks to spare, visit Team Odyssey's donation page and help them reach their goal.

Here is a segment on Pittsburgh Today Live that featured Laura and Team Odyssey (and another parent running for the same cause):

If that doesn't work, click this link

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Life With A Teenage Boy

2011-05-04T10:02:00.003-04:00

I was walking through the house when The Boy went hustling past me in a hurry. I asked where he was going and he said, "There's no toilet paper in our bathroom, so I am going in yours." Now, I don't have a problem with him using my bathroom, but mine is old and small and ugly and the kids have a nice, new, big bathroom. Plus, it irritates me that he is so lazy that he would walk all the way across the house to my bathroom, rather than just grabbing a new roll for his.

So I told him that I didn't care if he used my bathroom, but that he needed to get a new roll and put it in his. He said OK and that was the end of it.

Or so I thought until a few hours later when I was in my bathroom and reached for the paper, only to discover that the the new roll he took into his bathroom? Came from my bathroom dispenser.

I'm Starting to Get a Complex

2011-05-02T11:31:00.004-04:00

Remember the tick? Yeah, me too. The moment is burned in my brain. In fact, it was burned into my brain on Saturday when I sat at my friend's kitchen table and casually ran my fingers through my hair and found - wait for it - another fucking tick! And this time, it was embedded in my head!!!!!!!

With apologies to burghbaby (but this warrants it):

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hopefully the evil little fucker didn't leave me with any horrible after effects. You know, other than the Disturbing, Paralyzing, Constant, Nausea-Inducing, Head-Scratching Paranoia

I'm Convinced They Were Trying to Kill Us

2011-04-29T11:30:00.016-04:00

I was reading @burghbaby’s post the other day about 80s toys and how they have led to many failures in life and my first thought was “I’m old”. No really. Because I didn’t have toys in the 80s – I had toys in the 70s When 80’s kids were playing with Strawberry Shortcake, we 70s kids were taking drinking beer in a barn somewhere. When 80s kids were playing with Cabbage Patch Dolls, we 70s kids were taking the SATs. When 80s kids were playing with Transformers, we 70s kids were researching birth control (by which I mean NOT researching birth control – teens are notoriously stupid). And while 80s toys may have caused failure, 70s toys were known to maim and kill. For instance:

Click-Clacks (or Clackers, Klackers, etc):

They were 2 hard acrylic balls on strings that you would hang on your finger. Then, you’d move your hand up & down and they would “clack” against each other loudly. It was quite fun until you hit yourself in the face with them and broke your orbital bone.

Slime:

This one was only dangerous when you inevitably got it in the carpet and your mom lost her mind.

The Streaker:

This was one of my favorite toys as a child. It was two long nylin ropes threaded through a football-shaped hard plastic ball. At the four rope ends there were handles that each player would hold. You would spread your hands apart, whicih would send the ball “streaking” towards the other player, whou would them send it back. The object of this game seemed to be to get that thing going as fast as possible and catch your opponent off-guard so it would slam against their hands and hopefully break some fingers.

Ice Bird:

This was a snow cone maker. You froze a block of ice and then used a bird with a scary ass garter on the bottom to shave the ice. I don't know about you, but I have shavced off my knuckles a ton of time while grating cheese, etc. Cheese is soft, and this grater was strong enough to grate ice.

Suzy Homemmaker Oven:

This was similar to the easy bake oven, but it was more awesome, because instead of sliding the cake in a slot, it opened up like a real oven. This meant you could cook whatever you wanted – not just those little bullshit easy-bake cakes. This toy wasn’t super dangerous in and of itself (other than the fact that an oven for children = burns, but it became dangerous when my friend Sue and I cooked up one too many nasty-assed concoctions and my grandma started making us eat them. That? Was deadly.

Creepy Crawlers:

Oh how I loved my Creepy Crawler maker (I had a thing for a lot of “boy toys” – I had about 5 slot car sets). This was a toy that allowed you to make your own rubber-like bugs, by pouring a liquid “goop” into die-cast molds. But see - the metal molds on this thing heated up to approximately 23 thousand degrees. I think I still bear scars from that toy.

Incredible Edibles:

These were the same as the creepy Crawlers, only you could eat them. Burns on the hands AND mouth.

Paddle Talk:

This was a plastic paddle that you took in the car. It had different messages that you could flip around and “talk” to other cars. The toy itself wasn’t dangerous, but showing the “Same to You Turkey!” or “Get Off My Tail” to the wrong person could get your ass kicked. Not to mention that the rest of them where in the “You're Cute"/"Hot To Trot"/"Let's Park" vein and could get you molested.

Super Elastic Bubble Plastic:

That shit had to be toxic.

Krazy Kar:

I loved this with a passion. You sat in the middle and “pedaled” with your arms. This definitely wasn’t as dangerous as some of the other toys I owned - it didn’t heat up, or explode, or shoot your eye out, but you sat so low to the ground that no car could ever see you. And it had no brakes, so riding it down a hill pulled your arms off and sent you crashing into the neighbor’s bushes. Not that I’d know anything about that.

Jarts:

It’s like they wanted us dead. Irwin Mainway would be proud.

But as dangerous as the 70s toys were, it was even worse for the 60s kids. My Aunt Cee, who is a few years older than me, got this for Christmas one year:

The Big Burger Grill

That, my friends is a real, working grill. To cook burgers on. Somehow my aunt managed not to get 3rd degree burns or set the house on fire. But that may have been because she never really “got” the toy. It was intended to be a Christmas present, but she went snooping and found it before Santa could put it under the tree. Then she proceeded to open it, head down to the fridge for some ground meat, and cook up a burger and eat it. Then, being a child, it never occurred to her to clean the thing before she put it back in the box. Needless to say, when Santa was doing the wrapping, he smelled the telltale smell of cooked meat and got suspicious. Strangely, the box never appeared under the tree.

I could go on forever listing these – like the one I can’t remember the name of which was a silly-putty like substance in bright colors that you would throw against the wall and it would stick. My family was dangerous with that stuff – things got broken, people got beamed in the head. Good times.

But not all of the 70s toys were dangerous. I also have many fond memories of toys like Fidget:

And Shaker Makers:

And Fuzzy Wuzzy soap:

Tell me – what was your favorite 60s-70s toy? And was it dangerous?

Tick Tick Tick...Boom

2011-04-26T13:08:00.007-04:00

On Easter, we sat at my aunt's house, talking about childhood injuries & illnesses and the talk turned to lice. I have been through that devil plague wit my kids and I can tell you that long after the infestation has been cleared, the effects will live with you for a long time - possibly forever. not your kids - your kids will be all, whatever two days later, but you'll be the one who - five years later - still loses my shit every time I feel even the tiniest itch on my head (and I didn't even have them!)

So anyway, I was telling everyone how I'm nuts and obsessive, and how I completely overreact if one hair as much as moves in the breeze and feels like a tiny tickle or itch. I immediately go into a several hour panic, scratching and feeling around in my scalp for what is obviously some kind of creepy crawly. And then we all laughed and laughed at how crazy I am.

And then Monday, I was sitting at my desk at work, ran my fingers through my hair, and discovered a tick.

A TICK!!!

IN MY HAIR!!!!!!!

Who's crazy now, bitches???

(OK, it's me - I'm still crazy. Because once you find a tick crawling around in your hair, it's pretty much crazytown from here on out. Of all thing to be right about, it had to be this one.)

You Call That a Puppy?

2011-04-21T08:44:00.003-04:00

Remember him?

Yeah, me neither.

Conversations

2011-04-19T12:12:00.008-04:00

The Girl & friend visiting my SIL, Weenie, at her work (a makeup counter):

The Girl: "Can we put on lip gloss?"
Weenie: "Sure - what color do you want?"
Friend: "We want red!"
The Girl: "Excuuuuse me, Friend, but YOU DO NOT SPEAK FOR ME! We'll take red, Weenie."

*********************************************

Bathing suit shopping with my mother (gives you chills, doesn't it?):

Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: hmm
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *rolls eyes*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: sigh
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: pfft
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *getting a headache*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: (silent) omgomgomgomg
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *trying not to kill anyone*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: *thinking about killing myself*
Mom: "I don't like that one - it makes your boobs look huge."
Me: "Mother - I have had these boobs for THIRTY YEARS - you should have accepted by now that they ARE huge!"

*********************************************

After school:

The Girl: "Mom, someone wrote a bad word on the board today."
Me: "Really?"
The Girl: "Yep. You wanna know what they wrote?"
Me: "Sure - what did they write?"
The Girl" "They wrote the A-word!"
Me: "No way!"
The Girl: " Yes way. AND they put 'hole' on the end!"
Me: "Get out! I wonder who wrote it."
The Girl: "Maybe it was Charley - he probably thinks that's his name anyway, since that's what you call him all the time."

Tomatoes!

2011-04-18T12:56:00.004-04:00

When it comes to struggling to manage work, home, kids, etc, something always suffers (I have finally accepted that I cannot be supermom), and for me, that thing tends to be meals. I try – I really do try – to have a healthy, home-cooked meal on the table every night, but I fail by a long shot. Time is a factor – I get home after work and often have a very short time before I have to run someone off to soccer practice or scouts, and that means cooking/eating quickly. And home-cooked and healthy don’t often go hand in hand with quick.

Add in the picky eaters in my house and it’s a recipe for disaster (or crappy, empty meals). When it comes to vegetables for instance, the girl loves green beans – she would eat them every day for every meal. The boy hates them. Mr b loves Brussels sprouts. The rest of us laugh at him when he suggests we have them. They’ll eat raw cauliflower and carrots, but gag at the thought of it cooked. They like broccoli cooked, but raw? No way. It’s enough to make you crazy. Or crazier, in my case.

And if I am being honest, I can be picky, too. There isn’t a lot that I won’t eat, but the things I don’t like, I really don’t like. I will continue to try foods I don’t like, because you never know. I eat a ton of things now that I didn’t eat as a child. Or that I didn’t eat even a few years ago. Beans, peppers & peas, for instance. But other things – not matter how many times I try, I can’t stomach – like peanut butter. And one of the main things that I won’t eat is the girl’s absolute favorite food in the world – fresh tomatoes.

Now, I love tomato sauce and Lord knows I think ketchup is a food group, but fresh tomatoes? I just can’t seem to develop a taste for them. But I try to work them into our meals as often as possible, because tomatoes are quite good for you.

Did you know that tomatoes and tomato products have been shown to help with reduce the risk of certain cancers, heart disease, ultraviolet light–induced skin damage, osteoporosis, and other conditions?

And that tomatoes contain high levels of carotenoid antioxidants such as lycopene, but also serve as a significant source of vitamin C, fiber and potassium (in fact, calorie for calorie, tomatoes contain more than twice the potassium of other common sources such as bananas, potatoes, milk and orange juice).

Tomatoes are so good for you that the 2010 Dietary Guidelines Advisory Committee outlined a new red-orange vegetable sub-group for Americans to provide a greater focus on tomatoes. This guideline can be easily met by consuming just one more half-cup serving of tomatoes each day.

Since I don’t eat fresh tomatoes, though, I thought that I probably wasn’t getting the health benefits, because fresh is always better, right?

Wrong.

It turns out that canned tomato products (which I do use regularly) are not only as good as fresh, in some ways, they can be better. While all tomatoes contain high levels of the powerful antioxidant lycopene – canned products such as tomato paste, tomato sauce and spaghetti sauce have approximately seven times more lycopene than raw tomatoes!

See – you learn something new every day!

Hunt’s has shared this information with me, so I can pass it on to you, along with a recipe showing that even crazy, busy, tired moms of even the pickiest eaters can manage to throw together something delicious AND nutritious and not lose our minds.

The problem with recipes is that I am not a recipe-style cook. I am a throw it together using the “dash of this” and “handful of that” method (which is why I suck at baking – it’s too much of an exact science), but I’m sure you all can figure it out – it’s quick, easy and delicious).

We have this pasta dish once a week, because we all love it (and I did have photos to go along with this, but then I lost all my sense and somehow deleted them from my camera). I dedicate this recipe to my grandma who – for years – watched me pick every tiny tomato morsel out of every dish she ever made.

You’ll need:
• 1 box of pasta (I prefer campanelle – it’s pretty, so it looks nice when you are serving it to guests, plus the shape of the pasta holds the flavors better)

• 3 red peppers, thinly sliced (sometimes I use combinations of red/yellow/orange – it tastes the same, but it’s pretty. And yes, I clearly have a thing about “pretty” food)

• 2 packages of sliced mushrooms (you can slice your own, but my own personal feelings about that are: HAHAHAHAHAHA – pre-sliced it is)

• 2 cans of Hunt’s diced tomatoes (I use the no-salt added because I like to control the salt, plus my family are food-salters, but they have a ton to chose from – they have diced with garlic, or with basil or balsamic or peppers or lots of other combinations - you can see them all here – but definitely use Hunt’s because theirs are the best quality – they go from vine to can in just hours and they use flash-steaming to remove the skins, which many other companies use LYE - ewww)

• Garlic – lots and lots of garlic (you can use fresh & mince it yourself, or do what I do – buy a jar of it already minced. You can use garlic powder if you want, but it’s not the same).

• Minced onion (or fresh, sliced onion if your kids won’t cry and whine and choke and gag and possibly convulse at the sight of an onion in their meal)

• Extra-virgin olive oil. (I suppose you could use the oil of your choice, but I am telling you in all honesty you want the extra virgin for the flavor. Or at the very least some sort of olive oil. Don’t ruin this with canola or vegetable oil – I’m begging you).

• Grated cheese- whatever you prefer – romano, parmesan, asiago (personally, all the cheeses are my favorite – I have made it with fontinella which was delicious, but my kids tasted the difference, and I sometimes make it with crumbled bleu, but only if it’s just for me because if you think the onions will make my kids cry/whine/choke/gag/convulse, hoo-boy, try giving them bleu cheese).

• Salt & pepper

Now here are my very technical directions:

• Cook the pasta to be al dente

• In the meantime, pour some oil in a large pan and throw in your minced garlic. At least a tablespoon, though I tend to use more – garlic is magic.

• Then add your sliced peppers & sauté.

• After a few minutes, add the sliced mushrooms & continue to sauté until the veggies are tender. You can add a little oil or even water if needed.

• (This will sound weird, but I tend to let my veggies start to brown/scorch a tiny bit, then I will throw in a little water – it will give everything a nice flavor and color)
• Mix in your Hunts diced tomatoes & sauté for a minute or so (they don’t really need to cook, so much as just incorporate the flavor.

• Once the veggies are done, add a little more oil and dump your drained pasta into the pan & toss it all together (this is why you need a large pan – of you don’t have one, you can always do the mixing in a large serving dish, but I like to get the pasta in the pan for a minute or two to really get the flavor in there), adding salt & pepper to taste.

• Before serving, I usually mix a little bit of the cheese into the pasta to get some melting cheesy deliciousness, and then have more on hand for each person to add some of their own.

• Enjoy!

• Also – you can use the veggie part of this recipe as a bruschetta topping and it’s delicious - just cut everything up a tiny bit smaller.

OK – here’s the legal stuff: I was contacted and am being compensated by Hunt’s and The Motherhood to do this post, but the opinions expressed are my own. We really do eat this recipe once a week and we love it. And I really do use Hunt’s tomatoes because they are the best. My grandma used Hunt’s, my mom uses Hunt’s, and now I do too.

Maneater

2011-04-11T13:14:00.005-04:00

I was emptying out The Girl's folder this morning and I came across a note written by her so-called "boyfriend". It read, "I'm sorry I made you mad. I will do anything!"

OMG

Like No One Is Watching

2011-03-31T20:18:00.004-04:00

It started back in December with a tweet from @unclecrappy that Furthur was coming to Pittsburgh. I have a tendency to see that a concert or a play or a musical is coming to town, think yeah, I’d like to go to that, then go on to either forget all about it until it’s sold out, or decide to be “responsible” and not spend the money. I can’t tell you how many things I have missed this way (and regretted it afterward). I’m sure if @unclecrappy had left it at that, I would have done the same as always, skipping it and kicking myself after the fact. But he didn’t leave it at that. Instead, he sent me a message that he wanted me to come along with him and @mrscrappy and offered to get the tickets. And for the first time in a long time, I thought, the hell with it, I’m going. And I am so glad I did.

These days, not a lot of people know that I’m a Deadhead – I dress for work, and don’t generally blare my music at my desk. I have to fight for radio time in the car with three stubborn people. I don’t have the time or freedom of my late teens and early twenties to take off to parts unknown to see a show (or in some cases, camp out for tickets). But those who knew me “then” had no doubt – I was a Deadhead. It’s not just a love for a band and their music (although for me, that’s how it started), but it’s a way of life.

I liked the music when I was still in high school, but I didn’t know anyone else that did. And lord knows if there’s ever a time when you want to “fit in”, it’s high school. Sadly, for most of us, no matter how badly you want to and try to fit in, sometimes you just don’t. So imagine my delight when I went away to college and found my people. What a difference a year made for me. In high school, I had friends, but the majority of them weren’t real friends – they were the kind of friends that you have to actively work to keep – always watching what you say and do and wear. Always watching who else you befriend. And anyone who knows me knows that this is simply not the way I live my life. I have never been dazzled by an in crowd. I have never held back my feelings or actions for fear of someone liking me. To keep from hurting someone – sure – we have all done that. But to impress someone into being my friend? No thanks. Needless to say, by the time I graduated. I had a lot of acquaintances, but probably 3 or 4 true friends.

But then I went to college & met a deadhead and we became friends. And slowly but surely, I met more and more. And I knew I had found my tribe. Never in my life, had I come across a less assuming bunch of people. They cared about each other. They loved each other – and me – without judgment. Their doors were always open to whomever wanted to come in. They weren’t impressed by money or clothes or status, but by kindness and compassion. I was home. The next 10 years of my life, I moved around, changed schools (twice), had relationships, and lost and gained jobs. But one thing was always constant – the Deadhead friends I made in each place.

I grew up being criticized a lot, and that made me a pretty self-conscious person. I was comfortable enough with myself to not let it show – to not care what anyone thought of me, but even if I didn’t care about being judged, I still felt self-conscious much of the time. but around my deadhead friends, that part of me would disappear. And it wasn’t just my friends, it was that community in general. The community of Deadheads was like that – you didn’t need to be self-conscious about anything. I went on vacation by myself to visit my aunt and looked in the paper for something to do. I found a band called New Potato Caboose (a Dead song), and went with my aunt to see them. Before the night was over, I met some folks who invited me to hang out with them that weekend. By the next day, I had extended my vacation, changed my flights, and had a great time with my new friends.

I moved to a new city and heard about Dead night at a local bar. I headed there alone, but by the end of the night, I had made friends that I had for many years afterward. I once got separated from friends at a show and within five minutes of looking lost and alone, I was asked to join a group of folks sitting nearby and I spent the entire evening with them and had a great time. This - this - was what being a Deadhead was to me. I even found myself a more tolerant person in that environment. And another concert, people bumping into me and squeezing through the row of seats where I sat would irritate me. Not there. At any other concert, people standing up and dancing the entire time would frustrate me. Not there. There, it was expected, encouraged. I joined them.

But then Jerry died and the shows came to an end. They regrouped and started back up again, but by then I had had my first baby and then my second. Suddenly finding time or money for a concert was hard. By the time, I could finally go again, I always seemed to be on vacation or broke, or something, and I never managed to make it. And I lost touch with most of my Deadhead friends. And the old self-conscious me took hold again. I am constantly down on myself – I am too fat, my face is breaking out, my clothes are out of style, I’m out of shape, my hair is a mess. I miss out on doing things because of it. The thought of wearing a bathing suit in public makes me feel queasy (though I push through that one for The Plunge), I rarely appear in photos, though I happily take them of everyone else. I don’t dance unless I (or maybe everyone else) have ample alcohol to forget about my lack of rhythm and how awful I must look.

So last night, as I was walking into the venue with @unclecrappy, @mrscrappy and @cjyohe, surrounded by people – young, old, thin, fat, black, white and everything in-between, I suddenly realized I was feeling…I don’t know…weird. And then I realized that it wasn’t what I was feeling, but what I wasn’t feeling. Not one of those people cared about my hair looking bad. No one was offended that my t-shirt was a little clingy, showing off my belly. No one even noticed the ripped hem of my jeans. No one looked me up and down (except the one old guy who did and liked what he saw, as evidenced from his somehow inoffensive, “ooo, mama, you look good) And no one gave a damn whether I could dance or not. And dance I did. For the first time in a long, long time, I danced like no one was watching.

His Sister Loved Her Windfall

2011-03-25T11:55:00.003-04:00

I am being driven slowly insane by a condition known as Having Children. It’s a vicious circle – The kids drive me crazy, which stresses me out and makes me less tolerant of their nonsense, which stresses them out, so they act up more, which stresses me out even more, and so on.

I have been harassing the boy to get room clean once and for all. Every time he cleans it, he ends up sitting there doing nothing until he hears you walk up the hall, then he looks busy. This goes on for hours until those 2-minute bursts of activity result in a room that is “clean” rather than clean. Things in drawers, under the bed, in the closet – whatever it takes to make it look clean. And by the time he’s done, it’s late, I’m tired, we have somewhere to go, I’m stressed – a million reasons to just let it go.

But a couple of weeks ago, I reached my limit – that room was getting cleaned no matter what. He had to go to play in the pit orchestra for the school musical that evening, and he was supposed to have a friend stay over afterward, so I told him he needed to get the room cleaned before he had to leave or his friend wasn’t coming. He started off in his normal, sitting on his ass way, until I made it clear that his friend would not be allowed to come over if he didn’t get it done. Suddenly he kicked it into high gear.

He was working and cleaning and doing what I asked. The girl was even helping him. I gave him garbage bags to get rid of the 600 pounds of paper and crap and broken stuff that he had been shoving in the closet and in drawers and under the bed for the past god knows how long. I was happy to see the first bag come out of there. And the second. And the third. I praised him and said, now doesn’t it feel good to get that done?

He admitted that it did and kept on going. And then another bag came out. And another. And I started to get suspicious. I asked him if he was just throwing stuff away because he didn’t want to clean it. He insisted he wasn’t and that he was only throwing out old, broken stuff and garbage. I was skeptical, but given the amount of stuff I had recently seen under his bed and in his closet – it was possible. Finally, after many hours (and seven bags), he was done. He got ready and we dropped him off at the school.

After I got back, I happened to glance into the last bag he brought out, which he hadn’t tied shut. And my head exploded into a million I-Will-Kill-That-Kid shaped pieces. Right on top, I found a game. A game that had never been opened – that still had the plastic shrinkwrap on the box. And a science kit. And a sculpting book & set. And a set of good (and very much not cheap) artist pastels. And a robot-building kit. None of which had ever even been opened. Some of these things, I tried to donate to Toys for Tots the previous year, since they were still brand new, but he insisted he was going to play with them, so I didn’t.

By now, it was clear that I was going to have to go through every single bag. I understand if he had outgrown something and didn’t want it anymore. But there is no way in hell I was going to let him throw away a bunch of perfectly good stuff that we could donate or sell, or give away to someone who would love to have it. So this week, I spent hours going though those bags. And oh the things I found.

In addition to the previously mentioned items (and lots of broken stuff and garbage), I also found: the remote control car we paid about seven bajillion dollars for him to build, another remote control car, a set of air hogs helicopters, a paintball gun, a sweater, two t-shirts and a hat that he just got for Christmas (that still had TAGS ON THEM!), Several other articles of clothing – some outgrown, but in pristine condition, and some which still fit – including brand names like American Eagle, Gap, and Calvin Klein. Several baseball hats, including two scout hats and a Gap hat with the tags still on it. A favorite pair of MY sandals that have been missing for a couple of years. One of my hiking boots. A pair of his father’s shoes. A couple articles of his sister’s clothing. Approximately 1,000 marbles. His entire keychain collection (which his sister has been eyeing for years). A pair of roller blades. About a dozen books, including a boxed 3-book reference set. A Lion King collectible. A Pirates collectible coin book with several coins. The same with Steelers coins. A Sidney Crosby trading card in a protective case. A huge box of trading cards, including sports, pokemon and yugioh. Three brand new packs of pencils. A brand new pack of pens. A stapler. A calculator. Several scouting/camping items. Two scouting books. Two souvenir baseball bats – one from the final game at Three Rivers. A small piggy bank (with some money in it). A brand new set of markers. A brand new set of colored pencils. An electronic door alarm kit. A Steelers sign. Karate pads. A giant ear of corn hat (a treasure that should never be thrown away). And a whole bunch of other things that have no business in the garbage.

I gathered up all the goods and waited until he got home. Then I watched while he noticed the huge bin of cool stuff and approached it. And then I attacked: “BACK OFF! That is not your stuff!”

“What? This is stuff from my room!”

“No – that is stuff you threw away, so it isn’t your anymore”

“No way! That’s not fair! I didn’t mean to throw that stuff away! Come on, Mom!”

“Forget it, Pal.”

And then I happily gave a bunch of the stuff to his sister while he watched. Sometimes I love being the mean mom.

PS. I know that he didn't throw this stuff away out of pure ungratefulness - he was in a panic that he wouldn't get to have his friend stay over so he started throwing stuff out without even looking at it. But it's still no excuse.

It's Hell Getting Old

2011-03-09T12:51:00.000-05:00

I make a lot of jokes about getting old, and most of the time they are just that – jokes. But lately, I find myself finding a little truth underneath the silliness and the sarcasm and the self deprecation. I can remember as a child my great grandmother (who we called Nana) saying, “It’s hell getting old” and I never really understood what she meant. As I got older, I decided that she must be talking about the aches and pains of getting older. I can understand that. While I’m not yet ancient, I’ve reached the age where although I can still do certain things in my mind (like back walkovers and roller skating backwards and reverse 1-1/2s off the 3 meter board), when it comes to reality I can just forget it. And I know what it feels like to be tired, and to have an aching back, and to wake up in the morning with injuries incurred while sleeping. Obviously, that is what she was talking about, right?

But now that I am a little older than when I decided that was the explanation, I realize that wasn’t it at all. Sure – the physical aches and pains can be a real bitch, but hell? No, that’s something else.

Though beautiful and wonderful, it’s hell to watch your kids grow up. To watch them lose every little bit of that baby you carried and held and nursed. It’s hell to not be able to instantly picture their baby faces in your mind. It’s hell to realize you aren’t perfect in their eyes anymore. It’s hell to think about them leaving home and going where you can’t protect them. It’s hell knowing that your time with them is short.

It’s hell watching your parent age. Not just get older, but get old. It’s beautiful to be old enough to see past your differences and remember when they were perfect in your eyes, but hell to watch them change into something else. It’s hell to see your friends lose their parents and to know that someday you will too. It’s wonderful if you still have your parents to lean on, but hell to realize that soon they will be leaning on you. It’s hell to wonder who you will lean on then. It’s hell knowing that your time with them is short.

It’s hell when you hear about an old friend or classmate with cancer or heart disease or diabetes and realize you’ve gone from feeling shocked because he or she is too young to be affected by something like that to feeling sad and upset and outraged because it’s so unfair, but no longer shocked. It’s hell to lose friends. It’s hell knowing that your time with them is short.

It’s hell when you find yourself occasionally giving your age and then finding yourself for even a brief instance thinking, “Wait, am I 42? Or is it 43?” It’s hell to feel like your life is flying by too fast and you can’t find the brakes. It’s hell to panic because you have so much left to do, but less time than think you need. It’s hell to suddenly feel mortal. It’s hell knowing that your time is always too short.

You were right, Nana. It is hell getting old.